Dominated by the Billionaire (Dark Fantasies #17)

1. Atlas

Atlas

I didn’t expect therapy to change my life. At least not my sex life. But one look at Dr. Rosy Black, and all I could think of was sex.

She stands in front of me, her pencil skirt stretching across her thighs, her teeth sinking into her plush lower lip as she watches me carefully.

“So, Mr. Tucker, what brings you to my office?”

At twenty-eight, she’s a highly qualified psychologist. One of the best, I’m told, which is why I’m seeing her.

She must’ve worked her ass off trying to get here.

But as I watch her ass move, her pouring me some herbal tea before she sits down, my cock reacts.

I want to work that pretty ass too, make it take my cock until she screams.

“My company’s board of directors thinks I need some help. They think I’m too intense, too obsessed with work. I also have trouble sleeping.” I gaze up into her understanding brown eyes as she opens her pad and notes something.

The office is exactly what I expected from a practice that charges four figures an hour—dark wood, soft lighting, the faint scent of sandalwood and something floral she probably spritzed on the cushions before I arrived.

The window behind her overlooks the glittering spine of Park Avenue, and the reflection of city lights catches in her dark chestnut hair like scattered embers.

I take my time cataloguing her.

Twenty-eight years old. Petite—can’t be more than five-three in those modest heels she’s wearing.

Slim but has curves in a way her fitted blazer tries and fails to disguise, the fabric pulling taut across her chest when she shifts forward to uncap her pen.

A pencil skirt that hugs the flare of her hips before tapering down to her knees, and she’s sitting with her ankles crossed beneath the desk like a schoolgirl trying to be proper.

Her fingers tremble when she picks up the notepad.

Interesting.

I let my gaze linger on the pulse point at the base of her throat. It’s hammering—a rapid, visible flutter beneath that porcelain skin—and she hasn’t even asked me a question yet.

“Tell me more about your work,” she says. “It says here that you’re a CEO. Must be challenging.”

“It is,” I admit, feeling a heat I haven’t felt in a while. I see beautiful women all the time, even sleep with them, but I’ve never really wanted to know any of them. I dated a few women when I was younger, but for the last decade, my life has been all about my work. “But I like it.”

“What do you like about your work?” she asks, trying to get me to speak, but all I feel is the heat in my groin when she moves, her sweet scent of Iris and lavender filling my nostrils.

“The control,” I admit. I notice her flinching a little, but she gathers herself quickly. Interested. I lean forward, taking up space as I meet her eyes. “I like being in charge. I think leadership comes naturally to me.”

She inhales. At forty-six, I’m considerably older and more experienced than she is, and I can tell from the nervous way she ticks her pen. I’m a billionaire too, which is perhaps why she asks the next question: “Are you happy?”

The question makes me blink. “Excuse me?”

“With your career, I mean. Are you happy with what you have built?”

“I am,” I admit. “I built my company from scratch, and despite the challenges, I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. And working is much better than dealing with assholes like my board of directors.”

She nods, trying to keep a smile from forming on her lips.

“What about your personal life?” She turns the pages. “Your profile says you’re single.”

Is she trying to flirt with me? Considering how attractive she is, I wouldn’t mind, but Dr. Black isn’t the proactive type. No, I surmise as I watch her. She wants to be chased and cornered. She wants someone to unearth the darkness in her brain, like she’s doing to mine.

“Never found a woman I’d want to spend my life with.”

I watch her pen still. She doesn’t write that down. Instead, she flips to a fresh page with the deliberate, practiced motion of someone retreating behind protocol.

“Let’s talk about stress management,” she says, and I can hear the shift—the clinical script sliding into place like armor. “When you’re in the boardroom, and tensions run high, what techniques do you use to maintain composure?”

I don’t answer. I let the silence stretch between us like a wire pulled taut, watching her throat work around a swallow.

“Mr. Tucker?”

“Atlas,” I correct her, my voice dropping to that register I know does things to women. The one that makes their pupils dilate before their conscious mind catches up. “Call me Atlas.”

Her pen taps twice against the pad. “Atlas. How do you manage stress in high-pressure situations?”

I lean back in the leather chair, spreading my knees wider, and I don’t miss the way her gaze dips—just for a fraction of a second—before snapping back to my eyes. Got you, babygirl.

“I don’t manage it,” I tell her. “I channel it. There’s a difference. One implies coping. The other implies using.”

She writes something. Probably a note about narcissism or control issues. The clinical labels she’s been trained to slap on men like me so she can file us away and feel safe.

“And outside the boardroom?” she presses, her voice steady but her pulse—that beautiful, betraying pulse at her throat—still hammering. “Do you have healthy outlets? Exercise, meditation, social connections?”

“Sex,” I admit, feeling her shock for a moment. The way she blushes, I bet she’s a virgin. “I don’t know if I’d call it a healthy outlet, though.”

Her pen stops moving entirely. She sets it down on the pad with a soft click, and I watch her fingers curl around the edge of the desk like she needs something to hold onto.

“Sex,” she repeats, and the word sounds foreign in her mouth, like she’s reading it from a textbook rather than speaking it from experience. “And you consider that... sufficient?”

“I consider it necessary.” I let my gaze drop to her crossed ankles beneath the desk, then drag it slowly back up—over the curve of her calves, the subtle tension in her thighs, the way her pencil skirt has ridden up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin above her knee.

“A man like me has needs, Dr. Black. I’m sure you understand.

” She blinks at me. “Don’t tell me you never think about it.

The pleasure, the control, the release of sex. ”

She clears her throat. “Exactly what is it about sex that you find so…calming?”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t call it calming, exactly, but a way to release my nature. I like being in control, having dominance over my partner’s desires, making them come at my command. I like it when they scream my name and shake with ecstasy, knowing I brought them there.”

I can feel her breathing still. The air in the room feels charged.

“What about your partners? Are they casual hookups or more?” She looks up at me, the intensity in my eyes making her blush and stammer.

“I mean—what I’m asking is whether your sexual relationships are emotionally fulfilling, or if they serve primarily as a release valve. ”

“They serve something deep within me, perhaps too dark to name in words.” I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and her breath catches—a sharp, audible hitch that fills the space between us. I file it away. “I don’t do emotional entanglements, Dr. Black, if that’s what you’re asking. I do dominance.”

The word lands like a detonation.

Her thighs press together beneath the desk. I can see the movement—the subtle shift of muscle, the way her knees lock. She’s trying to hide the response her body is having, and the effort is almost painful to watch.

“Dominance,” she echoes, and her voice has gone thin. I hear the airiness in it, and I know she is feeling it. Is she into that? I take in her petite form, her legs, her breasts straining against her blouse, and decide she’d be the perfect sub.

“Is that something you enjoy, Doctor? Being dominated?”

She stills, and I notice the conflict in her head before her professionalism wins. “That is not what this session is about.”

“No? I thought it was your job to understand your patient. Isn’t understanding my inclinations part of this session?”

“Yes,” she admits, losing the battle. I know this talk of dominance and submission is turning her on.

“I think you’d make a good submissive, doctor,” I go on, rattling her, establishing control in her own office. She isn’t writing anymore, intensely focused on me.

“What makes you think that?”

The fact that you’re young, full of fantasies, sexy, and begging to be fucked against that desk. Of course, I don’t say any of it. But I feel her need, her need to be seen, to be broken out of the cage she’s in.

“Just a hunch. When you’ve been doing this as long as me, you get a feel for things.

” I lean forward, crowding her space, my eyes meeting hers.

“Tell me, Dr. Black, do you ever fantasize about being dominated? Tied up, pleasured, and controlled until you can let go, until pleasure is the only thing you feel?”

“I….I….” She stutters, and I seize upon her weakness. I want this woman. I want her innocence, her hesitation, and her nervousness, and I want to turn it into intense pleasure.

“A lot of people feel relaxed when someone else takes charge. When someone else takes them where they can’t go alone, helps them surrender. That is why I’m so good at doing what I do.”

She’s wet now, I can feel it in the way her thighs press together. She can’t look away, and neither can I. I’m a hunter who has found his prey. I want Dr. Rosy Black under me, my cock buried in her pussy, taking her against that desk until she begs me to let her come.

“I’m sure you are. Do the…umm…women you have sex with enjoy it too?”

“Always,” I assure her. “Everything we do is consensual, and they always orgasm.” She bites her lower lip, writing down something, her fingers shaking as she tries to hide her excitement from me. “If you ever want to try, you just have to ask.”

Her head snaps up. “What?”

“You heard it.” I challenge her to admit her desires, but she hides again.

“I don’t think that would be appropriate, Mr. Tucker.”

“Why wouldn’t it? Didn’t we establish that knowing your client is part of these sessions?”

Oh, she’s hiding. I can see the way her lips are parted, her eyes focused on me, her hands reaching out for me, even as she pulls them back. Rosy Black is dying to be dominated by an older man.

“Y-yes, but…” Her alarm begins to ring, and she stands up in panic, affected by our conversation. “Oh.” She reaches for it and turns it off. “I’m afraid our session is over.”

I stand up, smiling, happy to have made a dent in her armor. “We can continue next time,” I say, walking away. “See you next week, Dr. Black.”

As I leave her stunned, I know this is what she’s going to be thinking about all week. I can’t wait to break down Rosy, to make her my willing submissive and get to know that petite body intimately.

Therapy might be more fun than I thought.