The Billionaire's Command
Page 10
None of this, after all, was about my pleasure.
He pulled away at last and rolled to one side, freeing me. “Stand up,” he said. “I want to see you walk.”
I obeyed without thinking, and then teetered in my shoes as gravity sucked all the blood out of my head. “You want me to—walk?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I want you to walk to one end of the room and back, so that I can watch your ass.” He spoke slowly, like he thought I was kind of dumb.
Well, compared to him, I probably was. But I had something that he wanted, and I had years of practice at making myself appealing to men. Smarts weren’t everything. What was between my ears had never paid the bills. It was the stuff between my legs that mattered.
I spun and strolled across the room, very slowly, deliberately planting one foot directly in front of the other so that my hips swayed back and forth. I had a slim waist and a round ass, and I knew I looked good. When I reached the far wall, I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.
He was definitely staring at my ass.
The heat in his gaze sent a slow pulse of desire through my body. I had never wanted anyone to touch me so badly.
I turned again and walked back toward him with the same slow, deliberate steps. I watched his gaze flicker between my breasts and my hips, and I felt the same sense of power that I did when I was on stage. He was lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching me, and as I came closer he sat up and moved to the edge of the mattress. I kept walking until I stood between his splayed thighs, close enough to touch, my bare body his to conquer.
I wanted things that I couldn’t even name.
“Very nice,” he said, and slid one hand over the crest of my hip and down to cup my ass, leaving trails of fire in its wake. He gave a firm squeeze and pulled me closer. “Your ass could make angels weep. Now tell me, Sassy Belle, what is it that you enjoy?”
What sort of a question was that? Did he mean in general, or during sex? I wasn’t even sure what I liked during sex. It had been years since I’d had sex that I wanted, and that was just adolescent fumbling with a boy I dated in high school. Not exactly sophisticated seduction. But I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, and so I dodged the question. “I enjoy you, Mr. Turner.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes, feigning shyness.
His grip tightened. “Spare me the flattery. I’m sure that works with most of your clients, but it won’t work with me. I asked you a question.”
I sighed. Fine: if he didn’t want the “oh you’re so handsome and the only man for me” act, I wasn’t going to bother playing nice. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me,” I said.
“Sexually,” he said. “I can’t imagine this is a difficult concept for you. You don’t let your clients fuck you, so what is it that you do with them?”
It was interesting that he thought my enjoyment had anything to do with how I interacted with my clients. “One of them likes me to read to him,” I said. “Naked.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You… read to him.”
I nodded. “I think he’s too old to, you know. So I read him erotica.”
“You fascinate me, Sassy Belle,” he said. “A whore who uses euphemisms for the act of coitus. Well, go on, then. Surely not all of your clients are too decrepit to take full advantage of what’s on offer.”
He was making fun of me. I crossed my arms, feeling oddly defenseless and exposed. None of my clients wanted to talk this much. Most of them just got straight to business: me naked, and their fingers in my pussy. I wasn’t sure what Turner expected me to do or say, and it made me nervous. I didn’t want to do the wrong thing. I shifted my weight onto one foot and said, “Some of them like lap dances.”
“Ah, a time-honored tradition,” he said. “And a clever way to get around your so-called ground rule. Must be hell on their cleaning bills, though. What else?”
God, was he going to make me list everything? We would be there all night. “One of them likes bubble baths.”
“Kinky,” he said. “What else?”
I sighed again. “You’re like that thing in Spain. When they tortured people.”
“The Spanish Inquisition,” he said, and when I nodded, he smirked and said, “You know, they say that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
His expression told me that he was making some kind of joke, but I didn’t get it. “Look, do you want to screw around or do you just want to listen to me talk about screwing around with other men?”
“You make a good point,” he said. “Let’s go with the former.” He curled his left arm around my waist, holding me there, and slid his right hand down between my legs to cup my overheated flesh. “Answer a question for me.”
“What?” I asked, a little breathless just from the pressure of his hand.
“Is your pussy wet for me already?” he asked, and without warning slid one finger inside me.
I gasped aloud, without meaning to, and my hands flew to his shoulders for balance. I was wet, and he easily sank into me until the base of his wrist was pressed firmly against my clit. He rolled the heel of his hand in a slow arc, grinding against me, and I gasped again and closed my eyes at the sensations that flooded through my body.
“Wet and ready,” he said, his voice interrupting the delirious state I had sunk into so quickly. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He rotated his wrist again and said, “I think I can deduce what it is that you want.”
“Good work, Sherlock,” I said, because it was easier to make smart remarks than to think about what he was doing to me, and how I was responding. I wasn’t supposed to like this so much.
“You’re really living up to your name,” he said. “Do you talk back to that sweet old man who just wants you to read him some porn?”
“No, because he’s sweet,” I said.
He slid another finger into me and pulsed his hand again, and I was glad I’d had the foresight to hold onto his shoulders, because my knees threatened to give way beneath me. He tightened his left arm around my waist and said, “I’m not going to be sweet to you, but I don’t think you’ll have any complaints. Now stop digging your claws into my shoulders, I’m not going to let you fall.”
“I don’t have claws,” I protested, but my words came out sounding weak and unconvincing. I believed what I was saying, but the way he kept pressing his hand against me made it hard to put any conviction into my voice.
He pulled away at last and rolled to one side, freeing me. “Stand up,” he said. “I want to see you walk.”
I obeyed without thinking, and then teetered in my shoes as gravity sucked all the blood out of my head. “You want me to—walk?”
“That’s right,” he said. “I want you to walk to one end of the room and back, so that I can watch your ass.” He spoke slowly, like he thought I was kind of dumb.
Well, compared to him, I probably was. But I had something that he wanted, and I had years of practice at making myself appealing to men. Smarts weren’t everything. What was between my ears had never paid the bills. It was the stuff between my legs that mattered.
I spun and strolled across the room, very slowly, deliberately planting one foot directly in front of the other so that my hips swayed back and forth. I had a slim waist and a round ass, and I knew I looked good. When I reached the far wall, I stopped and looked back over my shoulder.
He was definitely staring at my ass.
The heat in his gaze sent a slow pulse of desire through my body. I had never wanted anyone to touch me so badly.
I turned again and walked back toward him with the same slow, deliberate steps. I watched his gaze flicker between my breasts and my hips, and I felt the same sense of power that I did when I was on stage. He was lying on the bed, propped up on one elbow, watching me, and as I came closer he sat up and moved to the edge of the mattress. I kept walking until I stood between his splayed thighs, close enough to touch, my bare body his to conquer.
I wanted things that I couldn’t even name.
“Very nice,” he said, and slid one hand over the crest of my hip and down to cup my ass, leaving trails of fire in its wake. He gave a firm squeeze and pulled me closer. “Your ass could make angels weep. Now tell me, Sassy Belle, what is it that you enjoy?”
What sort of a question was that? Did he mean in general, or during sex? I wasn’t even sure what I liked during sex. It had been years since I’d had sex that I wanted, and that was just adolescent fumbling with a boy I dated in high school. Not exactly sophisticated seduction. But I didn’t know what he wanted me to say, and so I dodged the question. “I enjoy you, Mr. Turner.” I looked up at him through my eyelashes, feigning shyness.
His grip tightened. “Spare me the flattery. I’m sure that works with most of your clients, but it won’t work with me. I asked you a question.”
I sighed. Fine: if he didn’t want the “oh you’re so handsome and the only man for me” act, I wasn’t going to bother playing nice. “I’m not sure what you’re asking me,” I said.
“Sexually,” he said. “I can’t imagine this is a difficult concept for you. You don’t let your clients fuck you, so what is it that you do with them?”
It was interesting that he thought my enjoyment had anything to do with how I interacted with my clients. “One of them likes me to read to him,” I said. “Naked.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You… read to him.”
I nodded. “I think he’s too old to, you know. So I read him erotica.”
“You fascinate me, Sassy Belle,” he said. “A whore who uses euphemisms for the act of coitus. Well, go on, then. Surely not all of your clients are too decrepit to take full advantage of what’s on offer.”
He was making fun of me. I crossed my arms, feeling oddly defenseless and exposed. None of my clients wanted to talk this much. Most of them just got straight to business: me naked, and their fingers in my pussy. I wasn’t sure what Turner expected me to do or say, and it made me nervous. I didn’t want to do the wrong thing. I shifted my weight onto one foot and said, “Some of them like lap dances.”
“Ah, a time-honored tradition,” he said. “And a clever way to get around your so-called ground rule. Must be hell on their cleaning bills, though. What else?”
God, was he going to make me list everything? We would be there all night. “One of them likes bubble baths.”
“Kinky,” he said. “What else?”
I sighed again. “You’re like that thing in Spain. When they tortured people.”
“The Spanish Inquisition,” he said, and when I nodded, he smirked and said, “You know, they say that nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition.”
His expression told me that he was making some kind of joke, but I didn’t get it. “Look, do you want to screw around or do you just want to listen to me talk about screwing around with other men?”
“You make a good point,” he said. “Let’s go with the former.” He curled his left arm around my waist, holding me there, and slid his right hand down between my legs to cup my overheated flesh. “Answer a question for me.”
“What?” I asked, a little breathless just from the pressure of his hand.
“Is your pussy wet for me already?” he asked, and without warning slid one finger inside me.
I gasped aloud, without meaning to, and my hands flew to his shoulders for balance. I was wet, and he easily sank into me until the base of his wrist was pressed firmly against my clit. He rolled the heel of his hand in a slow arc, grinding against me, and I gasped again and closed my eyes at the sensations that flooded through my body.
“Wet and ready,” he said, his voice interrupting the delirious state I had sunk into so quickly. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He rotated his wrist again and said, “I think I can deduce what it is that you want.”
“Good work, Sherlock,” I said, because it was easier to make smart remarks than to think about what he was doing to me, and how I was responding. I wasn’t supposed to like this so much.
“You’re really living up to your name,” he said. “Do you talk back to that sweet old man who just wants you to read him some porn?”
“No, because he’s sweet,” I said.
He slid another finger into me and pulsed his hand again, and I was glad I’d had the foresight to hold onto his shoulders, because my knees threatened to give way beneath me. He tightened his left arm around my waist and said, “I’m not going to be sweet to you, but I don’t think you’ll have any complaints. Now stop digging your claws into my shoulders, I’m not going to let you fall.”
“I don’t have claws,” I protested, but my words came out sounding weak and unconvincing. I believed what I was saying, but the way he kept pressing his hand against me made it hard to put any conviction into my voice.
