Billionaires in Tokyo: A Dom Vs. Domme Story Read online

  “Fever? Is she going to be okay?”

  Ian shrugs. “If she’s not by tomorrow evening, I can get her to the hospital for a check-up. Worse comes to worse, she stays in her hotel room until it’s time to go home. Not gonna risk sending her back early if she really is sick.”

  My boyfriend’s assistant hadn’t seemed that sick earlier, but one could never tell with traveling as much as we have. Valerie doesn’t always come along on Ian’s business trips. Sometimes he brings me. Other times he goes by himself if it’s something more informal. It’s not often the three of us travel together. Darn. No wonder we didn’t have sex on the plane – not that Valerie hasn’t stumbled in on us before. She’s hilariously calm about it. Then again, any woman who works for my boyfriend had better be considering what he used to get up to before making me his forever.

  “Where were we?” Ian tosses his phone onto the phone and rolls on top of me. “Oh, right, my dick was in your hand and about to be in your mouth. I’m pretty sure.”

  “Is that what was going on?” I don’t recall getting ready to put his dick in my mouth. I’m not opposed, though. Ian is in the top five of best cocks I’ve ever sucked, let alone multiple times. Maybe top three. If he’s a good boy I’ll even say the best.

  Something tells me he’s not going to be good tonight. I still might say the best, though.

  “Fact,” he begins. “We have never screwed in Japan.”

  “Maybe you haven’t.”

  “I didn’t say neither of us has ever screwed in Japan. Just that we haven’t. The together was implied.”

  “Uh huh.” My bare feet slide effortlessly against the silky comforter, letting my legs spread around his hips. Ah, yes, one of the most comfortable positions for this girl. Isn’t it funny how perfectly he fits between his legs? Why, it’s almost like we were built to be this way! Sometimes we joke that we’re so perfect for each other that fate must have brought us together. In a way, it tried that long ago. We originally met at one of his father’s galas when we were in high school. One thing led to another and next thing we knew we were fooling around in a closet. We didn’t make it all the way, though. Poor Ian was too excited for that.

  For years we saw each other around but barely spoke. I daresay we developed a petty rivalry because it was better than feeling awkward whenever we were near each other. Hard to believe we’ve been together for two years now. Every day I wake up beside him thinking I’m pretty damn lucky, and yet it feels like forever already.

  Ian’s made it clear that he wants to marry me. Maybe not tomorrow, but sometime in the nearish future. Probably before we hit our fifth anniversary in our mid-30s. I’ve turned down his proposal every time, however. I’m not ready. Getting married would change our relationship, no matter what he thinks. Plus, people would treat me differently. Not him, though, and that’s something I need to make peace with first before agreeing to marry him.

  Yet when we’re together like this, during our downtime on a trip halfway across the world, I get to pretend that nobody is judging us. Nobody knows me. Nobody knows him. All they’d see are two people in love.

  And lust. Because Ian wouldn’t be Ian unless he was grabbing my breasts and thrusting between my legs, even with our clothes on.

  Isn’t it ridiculous how some guys can make you feel like the only person in the whole damn world? Even at my level of wealth and privilege, I’m not used to men being so absorbed with me months, years into our relationships. Sure, they think I’m their devilish princess (or queen, if I’m really into dating submissive men at the moment) for a while. They might even think of no one but me. Yet don’t most men get ornery? Their eyes start to wander? Okay, so I don’t care if my guy looks at other women. Touching? That’s the fastest way to get your shit out of my place, whether of your own volition or not!

  I’ve always felt secure with Ian since we’ve realized what we want from each other. He can make jokes about seeing other women and I can make off-hand comments about seeing my harem of men on the side. Sometimes he makes jokes about his own male harem to see if I’m paying attention. (I usually am.) I know that I can stop by his place unannounced and be instantly comfortable. I’ve never resented him stopping by my place unannounced. We basically live together, but with separate addresses, if that makes sense.

  The whole world knows we’re as serious as it gets… and the whole world is counting down to this wedding we haven’t even planned.

  “Your mind is wandering,” Ian growls against my jaw. “I must not be doing a good job at this boyfriend thing. Gotta step it up so you start paying attention to me.”

  I grab his head and pull his lips atop mine. There. Does that answer whether or not I’m paying attention, Mr. Mathers?

  Things are heating up to both of our benefits, and I’m 100% ready to tear off my panties and get going. Too bad someone knocks on my fucking door.

  Really? Again? Another interruption? How many can one girl take?

  “Once again,” Ian says, doubling-down staying on top of me. “Ignore it. We’re busy.”

  I have no doubt that my boyfriend will continue to have sex with me while someone knocks at my door. Who the fuck is it, though? I didn’t order room service. I wasn’t expecting anyone to drop by. It couldn’t be Valerie looking for Ian. That left either a courier or…

  One of our wonderful hosts.

  “Shit,” Ian mutters as I push him off and head to the door, hands smoothing down my clothes. At least he hadn’t ripped them off yet. He’s acquired a few more manners since we started dating a couple years ago. I don’t even have to use my safe word to get him to realize that, no, I really don’t want to have sex while someone is pounding on my front door while he thinks he’s getting the back.

  I plaster a smile on my face as I open the door. Sure enough, there’s Ms. Isoya, the middle-aged woman who was more than happy to set us up in separate rooms in her hotel.

  I know at some point she said she lived in the top floor of her building, but I wasn’t expecting to see her show up wearing a stylish Chinese silk robe wrapped around her toned body. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think Ms. Isoya was stopping by for something else, if you know what I mean. (Save me.)

  “Guudo ebeningu!” I understand her fine after I have some time to think about it, but that is one thick accent she courts. From now on, I’ll spare you. “I trust that everything is… ah… how do you say… ah! Satisfactory?”

  “Yes.” I purse my lips. Here’s hoping she doesn’t see the man lounging on the bed behind me. “Everything is fantastic here, Ms. Isoya.”

  “Good! Good! Well, if you need anything, be sure to ring the front desk. I’ve left standing orders that whatever you desire is yours tonight. If we don’t have it, my night auditor will find it for you in this neighborhood.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well!” Fujiko Isoya twists herself in circles as she thinks of something else to say. “I will leave you tonight. Please have a pleasant time in my paradise.”

  “We sure will.”

  “Tomorrow night my niece and I show you real fun in Japan. So sleep well, Ms. Alison.”

  The soft click of a hotel room latching shut has never sounded so sweet until now.

  “Ms. Alisoooonnn,” my boyfriend’s voice coos behind me. “Is everything satisfactooorrryyyy?”

  To his credit, he’s not mimicking Ms. Isoya’s accent. He isn’t that rude.

  “No.” I saunter back to the bed with a pout on my face. “I’m severely lacking in one of my rooms.”

  “Rooms? Is that what we’re calling your vagina now?”

  Only this man can yell vagina and not make me cringe. “You wanted an excuse to say vagina?”

  “Vagina, vagina, vagina.” He opens his legs and motions like he’s flagging a plane for landing. “Penis, penis, penis?”

  I roll my eyes before collapsing on the bed between his legs. “What beautiful harmony they live in together.”

  He sits up and gazes down into
my face. “So I hear we get whatever we want from room service. We should abuse that. With strawberries and whipped cream.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Babe.” Ian gently tugs on my long hair to get his point across. “Strawberries and whipped cream. In your rooms.”

  Sometimes I’m not sure he thinks through what he says. Whatever. I end up laughing either way.

  Chapter 2

  IAN

  I’d be more into this All-American breakfast if it weren’t for all the whipped cream I ingested last night.

  Usually I need a mighty helping of wine or champagne to get me in that kind of frisky mood. Or a simple reminder that I’m in a foreign country with the woman I want to try every kinky thing ever with.

  Apparently, dabbing whipped cream on her bare abdomen while I dragged strawberries across her skin using nothing but my mouth is one of those kinks on that list.

  Mercy!

  Kathryn looks at her waffle loaded with strawberries and whipped cream and is gonna hurl. She was the only one who ate more cream than me last night.

  “Please enjoy,” our waiter says in English. Thank God, because I don’t know any Japanese. My French got us by when we went to Paris a few months ago, but between Katie and me, we probably know how to say three things in Japanese. She keeps going on about how she wishes she brought her friend Eva along because she knows Mandarin… the fuck good is Mandarin going to do us in Japan? I’d like to see Kathryn try saying that in front of our magnanimous Japanese hosts.

  “Thought we were going to have fish and miso for breakfast,” Kathryn mumbles as she fumbles with her fork. She carefully pushes aside whipped cream and only eats the waffle. When I ask for the syrup, I’m met with confused looks. Right. The Japanese really don’t do the whole maple syrup thing. Unless it’s injected into random pastries you buy at the convenience store.

  Our hostess doesn’t join us until halfway through breakfast, apologizing for her absence. The bags beneath her eyes and shaky way she walks suggests she was either up all night drinking or fucking someone half her age. Trust me, I know. If you had my mother, you’d know too. (Gross.) Come to think of it, I think my mother would love Fujiko. I imagine the two of them trotting around Tokyo looking for their next twenty-something fix to keep their post-menopausal blood alive.

  “Good morning,” she says with only half of her usual fervor. “Eat up, please. We’ve got a long day of discussions ahead of us.”

  I love how she makes it sound like we’re on the same side of these discussions. Naturally, the Isoyas want to strike a favorable deal with us, but Fujiko shouldn’t pretend she’s not spearheading our combined bullshitting campaigns. She’ll be the first one to point out shit the family doesn’t like about our offers. After her brother gives her a coded look, of course.

  I see these things. You bet your ass I notice them.

  Everyone in this family has a role to play. I especially see it later after brunch, when we’re back in a conference room discussing what we both want from our supposed deal. Akihiro Isoya is the chairman with a lot of family history resting on his shoulders. No decision gets made without his approval, but he’s the strong and silent type, even for a weathered Japanese businessman, so he relies on those directly beneath him on the family food chain to relay his wishes and to translate what others are saying. Namely, today’s is filled by his twin sister Fujiko and their niece Junri, who is the heir presumptive of the company. The other younger man looks like another body at this point. He’s the lowest on the food chain. From what Valerie reported, Kunihiro Isoya is from another branch of the family and only here because he has proven competent. Not that it means anything to the chairman.

  Ah, Valerie. She barely makes it to the meeting on time. She said she had a fever last night, but she looks fine now. No, scratch that. She looks like she’s thrown up a time or two this morning. Damnit. I hope I don’t have to send her home early.

  Anyway, if Akihiro is the head of the family, then it’s the two female family members who turn that head, but even those two play different roles. Fujiko is old enough to get away with some bad behavior here and there, and she fulfills the role of light-hearted-but-shrewd business mind who smacks sense into her brother. Their niece, however, kisses tons of ass with her soft-spoken voice, bows of the head, and most familiarity with English and American business culture. She’s our main liaison between our side and theirs. Fujiko is eager to talk, but Junri is the one who actually listens.

  Which means I have to look all three of them in the eye at once. Akihiro, so he gets my due respect. Fujiko, so she doesn’t feel left out. Junri, because she is the one who has to understand me the best.

  It’s exhausting, and aside from the moral support she offers, Kathryn isn’t much help. That isn’t to say I wish she weren’t here. Hell no. I’d trade Valerie in for another Kathryn, and not only for sex! Kathryn’s never been afraid to get her administrative hands dirty, which is a lot to say for a woman born into her kind of privilege, even those that go on to take over companies. Sometimes I think her and Valerie get into competitions over who can take the best notes or relay the fastest information, but don’t tell them I said that. They’d both turn their feminist noses up at me and accuse me of trying to pit women against each other. Nah. I find it hilarious and cute. (Also don’t tell them that, yikes.)

  “I’m afraid that twenty-five million is the absolute lowest we can accept.” I’m told that you have to offer (and turn down) something three times before an Asian businessperson will finally accept what you have to say. This is my third time putting this number forward. Hopefully it gets through their skulls this time. “Any lower and we will not be able to renovate the property to the standards our guests have come to expect. I’m sure you understand.”

  The Isoyas nod in unison, but none of them are happy about this number. I gesture for Valerie to provide them with the detailed budgets the corporate accountants have come up with. Honestly, twenty-five million is a small investment for the Isoyas. I’ve seen their public portfolios. They’re fucking billionaires and they’re trying to convince me that they can’t pony up that much to get their brand name imprinted on my family’s next hospitality venture? Bullshit and a half, if I do say so myself. That property was specifically picked because it’s next door to one of the Japanese people’s favorite places to play tourist in America. By the time they get around to choosing their hotel, they’ll already have Nippon Royal Hotels imprinted in their brains thanks to the commercials here in Japan. It’s genius, really. We Mathers have to play up our own spin on American hospitality so we can still appeal to Americans, but the Isoyas will pump Japanese tourists into our wallets. Together, we make millions. Honestly, the Isoyas stand to gain more since it’s America they’re looking to branch into.

  “Twenty-five million is a lot of money,” Akihiro says with careful consideration of his words. His accent isn’t as stilted as his sister’s, but he does not talk with the same fluidity as she does. “We must have reassurance that your plan can succeed.”

  This time Kathryn slides a few papers forward. “The Mathers have used the same budget formula for previous enterprises. You can see the details here.”

  I love how the Grand Hotel back home is listed as an example. Working on that project together was how Kathryn and I ended up as a couple. I refuse to sell that property for that very reason. Good thing it’s still making us money.

  The Isoyas have seen all of this before, though. Thankfully, I’m used to these useless stalling tactics. Not that I don’t think this family has good reason to approach this deal cautiously. We’re talking millions of dollars here. Except it’s millions of dollars I’m confident my family can turn into a lucrative investment for everyone involved. The trick is to show my American bravado without looking like a foolish ass in the process.

  “It will be considered,” Akihiro tells me. “Of course, I will wish to speak of this more with your father.”

  You mean the guy l
ooking to retire soon? The reason I’m here with my girlfriend instead of him? My father is currently in Cabo with his newest girlfriend. (At least this one is only ten years younger than him. My mother could take a hint. Her latest main squeeze is younger than me. This time next week I fully expect to walk in on my parents fooling around in my father’s office. Again. They’re hopeless.)

  “Of course. Totally understandable. He’s expecting such a call.”

  Kathryn glances at me and writes something down in her personal notes. This action does not go unnoticed by the two Japanese women sitting across from her.

  The meeting drones on all afternoon. The Isoyas have concerns. We have concerns. Even in America or Europe a meeting like this would take one to two days before both parties reach even some semblance of an agreement, and even then that agreement will continue to change shape over the next few months. Yet, let me tell you, having this kind of meeting with a Japanese business is a lot more mind-numbing than a Western one. Those have room for some jokes and light-hearted tomfoolery if you’re with the right people. The Japanese? Nothing kills a deal faster than some idiot American making a tired joke, regardless if it’s funny or not. The Japanese save their humor and ability to have fun for the after-party.

  Oh, I knew there would be an after-party. They’re legendary in Japan. After you strike a deal or get done doing your big business in general, everyone goes out to get shitfaced and pay women to jiggle their tits. Or something. Obviously, I wouldn’t know first-hand.

  As we wrap up the final meeting of our trip, I assume all six of us (because poor Valerie wouldn’t be invited, since she was “the help,”) would head out to a fancy rich people bar to drink cognac and talk about our family histories and personal lives as if it were the common thing to do. I am… kinda right.

  We would be partying, but not together.

  “Mr. Mathers,” Kunihiro says with the thickest accent I have yet to hear in Japan. If you’re not familiar with Japanese, then you may not know that the sounds “th” and “r” do not exist in the language. Tons of Japanese people can’t say either sound to save their damn lives and you learn to not hold it against them when your name is “Mathers.” Even Ms. Junri could barely wrap her competent tongue around my mouthful of a name. This guy? I don’t know who Masasurus is but I hope he’s as handsome as I am. “If you are ready, my uncle and I have made reservations for the three of us at a location we’re sure you will enjoy.”