Boxed Set: A Possessive Billionaire - Vol. 1-3: His, Body and Soul by Olivia Dean

is intentional, and by no means due to a lack of space. It’s as if he had dug a den into his immense apartment. A hideout hidden from everything. The walls are draped in a very sensual, yet very comforting red fabric. The ceiling is low. The dark grey sheets are heavy and warm, they almost feel like flannel. And there are piles of art books everywhere on the floor. All of this gives me the impression of being in the lair of a rich Cossack, who must have kidnapped me. It doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea. I notice, amused, that I’m still wearing the diamond necklace.
    “Cream and sugar?”
    “Cream, please.”
    Quick, I need to find something before he comes back with the coffee. He may be incredibly comfortable in any situation, but I personally am not yet ready to drink coffee wearing nothing but a priceless necklace. His shirt! I know it’s a cliché, but I always thought this was incredibly sexy. It still has his woodsy smell and the scent of our lovemaking. I blush. There he is. He seems amused by my little ploy. I’m embarrassed, but I tell him how I think his room has a Russian feel to it.
    “Hey, it’s true, I never thought of it that way!”
    And off he goes again! I’ll never get used to it. What’s he going to come back with this time?
    He’s wearing some sort of bathrobe, or rather a coat. In any case, it’s red and very richly decorated with golden arabesques. It looks Mongolian. In his hand, a saber. Enormous. He unsheathes it all of a sudden while insulting me in some strange language. Russian? I’m almost afraid. No, actually, I really am afraid. I don’t understand anything. I’m wearing a man’s shirt and my lover is crazy. He moves closer and grazes me with the tip of his saber. I think that he’s giving me orders. My lack of response does not seem to satisfy him. He lifts his saber to cut me down with it. Oh my god! He hit me! I open my eyes. I’m not hurt. But my shirt is open. I’m naked again. Still wearing the necklace, though. But it seems that he’s softened. He puts down the weapon and comes to take my face in his hands. He murmurs something in this language, which I don’t understand.
    And suddenly, he takes me by the hair and pins me down on the bed. He covers my eyes with what seems to be a silk scarf. I beg him to stop. Seriously.
    “Relax, Emma, it’s a game. I’m sure you’re going to like it.” And he resumes his incomprehensible litany. I’m on my stomach, nude. At his mercy. I wait. Nothing happens. Apprehension gives way to excitement. Suddenly, I feel the blade of the sword on the inside of my ankle. I’m afraid. A little. But I’ve never been this excited. My Cossack caresses me with a sword that is probably over two centuries old. He gently moves up the inside of my leg. I shiver. He still holds onto my hair firmly, so that I can’t move. The suffragette inside of me is shocked that I could find any sort of pleasure in this. Yet…the cold blade makes me forget that this is a potentially dangerous weapon. My breath quickens.
    “You’re going to drive me crazy…”
    Oh my god! It’s me who’s saying this. He stops, as if frozen my something. I broke the spell. What did I do? Was it because I said something? Because I spoke to him in informal French? I keep quiet, but I get the feeling that it’s over.
    In fact, he gets up and says in a distant tone:
    “I have an appointment, I forgot. Sorry, Emma, I have to go.”
    I feel that he’s lingering at the side of the bed, looking at me. I take off the blindfold. A glacial cold fills the room. To the point that I curl up under the sheets. He brusquely turns towards the bathroom.
    I take advantage of the opportunity to jump out of bed and look for my clothes. I quickly get dressed. Okay. And now? Do I have to wait for him to get out of the bathroom? Knock and leave? Leave a note? I’m standing in front of this door, wondering about what I’m supposed to do while he’s the one who’s kicking me out.