Serving the Billionaire
Page 13
I went out to the bar and brought in the bottles of Scotch that Mr. Sutton had asked for, along with several pitchers of water and enough glasses to go around. When I came in for the last time, to set out drinking glasses and napkins, Mr. Sutton set his phone aside and beckoned to me.
Suddenly nervous, I went to the couch he was sitting on and stopped just short of his bent knees. “Is there anything else you’d like me to bring?” I asked.
“No, you’ve taken care of everything,” he said. He gazed up at me, unspeaking, and I got even more nervous. His eyes seemed to stare straight through me. I wanted to drop my gaze before he searched out all of my embarrassing secrets, everything I’d tried to hard to conceal from other people or simply to forget.
Desperate to break the charged silence, I said, “I could bring some more water, or—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off. He looked at me for a few more long moments, while I did my best not to fidget. Then he said, “Unbutton your shirt.”
I swallowed. I knew, intellectually, that at some point I would have to undress, but I hadn’t expected it to happen like this, with me standing in front of him, exposed, and him staring up at me so calmly, like he told girls to take off their shirts every day of the week.
Maybe he did, for all I knew.
I raised my shaking hands and undid the first button on my shirt. The soft lapels fell aside to expose my collarbone. I glanced up, shy and embarrassed, and met Mr. Sutton’s gaze. He was still staring at me intently.
I undid the second button, and the silk draped out of the way to reveal the black lace of my bra. It was a new purchase, one that I’d made with Mr. Sutton in mind. I’d stood in the changing room and decided that he seemed like the type of man who liked lacy lingerie. The color, too, had been a conscious choice: he wouldn’t like red, I thought. Too obvious.
Judging from the way his pupils dilated slightly when he saw my bra, I’d made the right decision.
I realized that I was aroused. At first, the discovery was almost academic, as I noted my quickened breathing, hard nipples, and throbbing pussy. That lasted for only a second, though, before I was overwhelmed both by lust and by what it meant. I liked having Mr. Sutton look at me. I liked the implicit humiliation of the situation: him cool and in control, sitting down, fully dressed; and me exposed, subservient, taking off my clothes for a man I knew almost nothing about.
And I wanted it. I wanted him to humiliate me. I wanted to beg.
Learning new things about yourself is always unpleasant, mainly because you don’t learn good things. Nobody suddenly figures out that they’re beautiful or witty or awesome at giving compliments. If you’re beautiful, people tell you. It’s not a surprise. But if you’re ugly, people are so careful to never mention your appearance at all that you might go years before you’re struck with the sudden knowledge that something’s wrong with your face.
I felt like that: like some passer-by on the street called me a nasty word, and I went home and stared at myself in the mirror and realized that it was true, that I was hideous. It wasn’t normal to think about the things that I was thinking about. Sex was supposed to be white sheets and rose petals, long kisses, sweet caresses. Not this, broken open inside a high-class strip club.
All of this passed through my mind in the few seconds it took me to lower my hands to the third button of my shirt.
Mr. Sutton reached out and touched my hip, carefully, with just the tips of his fingers. “Slow down,” he said. “There’s no rush. I want to look at you.”
That was the problem: I wanted him to look at me, and I didn’t want to want it. Maybe if I hurried to get my shirt off, I wouldn’t have to time to focus on how much I was enjoying the whole situation
But it wasn’t up to me. Mr. Sutton was paying me. I had to do whatever he wanted.
I shivered, thinking about all of the things he could make me do. I would do them. Anything, whatever he wanted, or close enough.
I slowed down. I’d seen one of the dancers giving a customer a striptease, just the night before, and I tried to imitate the things that she had done. I slid the third button halfway out of the hole, and then looked at him from beneath lowered eyelids, my hair falling over my face like a curtain. I bit my lip.
It seemed to work. Mr. Sutton exhaled through his nose and let his thighs spread apart slightly. I glanced down at his lap and noticed a bulge in his trousers. It occurred to me, for the first time, that I wasn’t the only one aroused by my performance. Mr. Sutton was turned on, too—maybe just as turned on as I was.
Well, obviously, I told myself. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He was paying me to take my clothes off for him. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t find me appealing.
But knowing that, rationally, was wholly different from seeing the undeniable proof of his desire for me. Mr. Sutton wanted me.
My skin felt hot, like the chandelier overhead was the mid-summer sun. My pussy throbbed steadily, and I could feel my panties growing damp. He hadn’t even touched me, and I was already slicking myself wanting him.
I exhaled and undid another button.
With the final button, the two halves of my shirt parted fully, hanging loosely at my sides and exposing my bra and my flat, brown stomach. I fought the urge to cover myself with my hands, and instead pulled my shoulders back, shook my hair out of my face, and stood as tall and proud as I could. Inside, I was terrified and confused, but outside I was Sadie, and Mr. Sutton could look all he wanted.
My nipples were rock-hard, and I was sure they were protruding through the thin lace of my bra. I watched Mr. Sutton’s face as his gaze raked over my exposed body. His blue eyes were dark with arousal, the pupils blown huge. Nobody had ever wanted me like this.
It was a good feeling.
“Take off your bra,” Mr. Sutton said. His voice was deeper than usual, and had a ragged edge to it that sent a shiver up my spine.
I reached behind myself to unhook the clasp of my bra, and slowly drew the straps down my shoulders, taking care to keep the cups in place, covering my breasts. Then, finally, I let the bra slide away down my body. I caught one strap in my fingers and tossed the bra onto the back of the couch, beside Mr. Sutton.
The cool air in the room felt good on my overheated flesh. I glanced down at myself, trying to see what Mr. Sutton saw. My breasts were small but firm and round: nothing like the lush feminine curves of most of the dancers, but not terrible. Not unappealing. And Mr. Sutton clearly liked them. The bulge in his pants had grown bigger, and his lips parted as he stared at me.
Suddenly nervous, I went to the couch he was sitting on and stopped just short of his bent knees. “Is there anything else you’d like me to bring?” I asked.
“No, you’ve taken care of everything,” he said. He gazed up at me, unspeaking, and I got even more nervous. His eyes seemed to stare straight through me. I wanted to drop my gaze before he searched out all of my embarrassing secrets, everything I’d tried to hard to conceal from other people or simply to forget.
Desperate to break the charged silence, I said, “I could bring some more water, or—”
“No,” he said, cutting me off. He looked at me for a few more long moments, while I did my best not to fidget. Then he said, “Unbutton your shirt.”
I swallowed. I knew, intellectually, that at some point I would have to undress, but I hadn’t expected it to happen like this, with me standing in front of him, exposed, and him staring up at me so calmly, like he told girls to take off their shirts every day of the week.
Maybe he did, for all I knew.
I raised my shaking hands and undid the first button on my shirt. The soft lapels fell aside to expose my collarbone. I glanced up, shy and embarrassed, and met Mr. Sutton’s gaze. He was still staring at me intently.
I undid the second button, and the silk draped out of the way to reveal the black lace of my bra. It was a new purchase, one that I’d made with Mr. Sutton in mind. I’d stood in the changing room and decided that he seemed like the type of man who liked lacy lingerie. The color, too, had been a conscious choice: he wouldn’t like red, I thought. Too obvious.
Judging from the way his pupils dilated slightly when he saw my bra, I’d made the right decision.
I realized that I was aroused. At first, the discovery was almost academic, as I noted my quickened breathing, hard nipples, and throbbing pussy. That lasted for only a second, though, before I was overwhelmed both by lust and by what it meant. I liked having Mr. Sutton look at me. I liked the implicit humiliation of the situation: him cool and in control, sitting down, fully dressed; and me exposed, subservient, taking off my clothes for a man I knew almost nothing about.
And I wanted it. I wanted him to humiliate me. I wanted to beg.
Learning new things about yourself is always unpleasant, mainly because you don’t learn good things. Nobody suddenly figures out that they’re beautiful or witty or awesome at giving compliments. If you’re beautiful, people tell you. It’s not a surprise. But if you’re ugly, people are so careful to never mention your appearance at all that you might go years before you’re struck with the sudden knowledge that something’s wrong with your face.
I felt like that: like some passer-by on the street called me a nasty word, and I went home and stared at myself in the mirror and realized that it was true, that I was hideous. It wasn’t normal to think about the things that I was thinking about. Sex was supposed to be white sheets and rose petals, long kisses, sweet caresses. Not this, broken open inside a high-class strip club.
All of this passed through my mind in the few seconds it took me to lower my hands to the third button of my shirt.
Mr. Sutton reached out and touched my hip, carefully, with just the tips of his fingers. “Slow down,” he said. “There’s no rush. I want to look at you.”
That was the problem: I wanted him to look at me, and I didn’t want to want it. Maybe if I hurried to get my shirt off, I wouldn’t have to time to focus on how much I was enjoying the whole situation
But it wasn’t up to me. Mr. Sutton was paying me. I had to do whatever he wanted.
I shivered, thinking about all of the things he could make me do. I would do them. Anything, whatever he wanted, or close enough.
I slowed down. I’d seen one of the dancers giving a customer a striptease, just the night before, and I tried to imitate the things that she had done. I slid the third button halfway out of the hole, and then looked at him from beneath lowered eyelids, my hair falling over my face like a curtain. I bit my lip.
It seemed to work. Mr. Sutton exhaled through his nose and let his thighs spread apart slightly. I glanced down at his lap and noticed a bulge in his trousers. It occurred to me, for the first time, that I wasn’t the only one aroused by my performance. Mr. Sutton was turned on, too—maybe just as turned on as I was.
Well, obviously, I told myself. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He was paying me to take my clothes off for him. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t find me appealing.
But knowing that, rationally, was wholly different from seeing the undeniable proof of his desire for me. Mr. Sutton wanted me.
My skin felt hot, like the chandelier overhead was the mid-summer sun. My pussy throbbed steadily, and I could feel my panties growing damp. He hadn’t even touched me, and I was already slicking myself wanting him.
I exhaled and undid another button.
With the final button, the two halves of my shirt parted fully, hanging loosely at my sides and exposing my bra and my flat, brown stomach. I fought the urge to cover myself with my hands, and instead pulled my shoulders back, shook my hair out of my face, and stood as tall and proud as I could. Inside, I was terrified and confused, but outside I was Sadie, and Mr. Sutton could look all he wanted.
My nipples were rock-hard, and I was sure they were protruding through the thin lace of my bra. I watched Mr. Sutton’s face as his gaze raked over my exposed body. His blue eyes were dark with arousal, the pupils blown huge. Nobody had ever wanted me like this.
It was a good feeling.
“Take off your bra,” Mr. Sutton said. His voice was deeper than usual, and had a ragged edge to it that sent a shiver up my spine.
I reached behind myself to unhook the clasp of my bra, and slowly drew the straps down my shoulders, taking care to keep the cups in place, covering my breasts. Then, finally, I let the bra slide away down my body. I caught one strap in my fingers and tossed the bra onto the back of the couch, beside Mr. Sutton.
The cool air in the room felt good on my overheated flesh. I glanced down at myself, trying to see what Mr. Sutton saw. My breasts were small but firm and round: nothing like the lush feminine curves of most of the dancers, but not terrible. Not unappealing. And Mr. Sutton clearly liked them. The bulge in his pants had grown bigger, and his lips parted as he stared at me.
