The Billionaire's Command
Page 11
“Talons, then,” he said. “Christ, do you pay someone to file them into dagger points?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but he moved his fingers again, and whatever I had been about to say was wiped clear out of my head. I made a pitiful, helpless whimpering noise and tightened my grip on his shoulders. There was no room for dignity anymore; I just had to focus on staying upright.
“What a temptation you are,” he said, his fingers moving steadily. “So responsive. You were made to quiver at a man’s touch.” He leaned forward and spoke into my ear, his words a hot puff of breath gusting across my cheek. “How soon will you come for me, sweetheart?”
I wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t, that I had never come for a client, that every orgasm was faked, and that he wouldn’t be the first to shatter my control. But I couldn’t say any of those things, because I wasn’t sure the last bit was true. My body responded to him in ways I didn’t understand and couldn’t account for, and if he kept touching me like that, I was going to totally embarrass myself.
Because it would be embarrassing. Losing control like that. I was a professional: calm, cool, and collected. Clients didn’t matter to me. They came and went. Nothing they did affected me. They touched me, and I smiled and cooed at them and pretended to be swept away, but none of it really mattered.
It didn’t matter. And I held onto that like a totem, something to shelter me from the reality of what I did for a living. As long as they didn’t really touch me, I was safe. I was just doing it for the money.
But if Turner broke through, if he made me crumble and want him—well, then everything he said was true. I was a slut. A common whore, desperate for a man’s caress.
I fought it. God knows I tried. I kept my eyes open and stared at him, trying for “defiant” but falling short and landing somewhere around “scared and rebellious” instead. He met my gaze evenly, maintaining steady eye contact even as he alternately rolled my clit in slow circles with his thumb and thrust his fingers in and out of my pussy. I wanted him to break first and look away, and then I would win and be able to maintain some illusion of control, even though my thighs shook and my nipples hardened into tight buds. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me look away first.
And so I stared at him, forcing my eyes to stay open, as he rubbed my clit faster and I felt the orgasm I both longed for and dreaded rise and crest over me like a wave.
It tumbled me to shore and dragged me under and back out to sea. I had never felt anything so powerful, such a strong physical sensation of powerlessness and joy. In that moment, he owned me. My eyelids dropped shut without my permission, and I felt every muscle in my body tense and quiver and then loosen all as one as the ecstasy slowly ebbed.
It ended, and I opened my eyes again, humiliated to find him still watching me steadily.
I felt my face flame hot, and I turned my head aside, not wanting to see the dark triumph in his gaze.
But he didn’t gloat, like I expected him to. Instead, he bent toward me and pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat, right between my collarbones. And then he pulled his fingers from my body, and took his arm from around my waist, and lay back on the bed.
The bulge between his legs drew my gaze, and I flushed again when he saw me looking and spread his thighs slightly, inviting me to look more.
“Unzip my trousers,” he said, his voice rough and low.
I shook my head, opening my mouth to remind him of my ground rule, but he spoke before I could. “My hand is wet,” he said. “That’s your fault. You wouldn’t want me to ruin my pants.”
I was hardly a blushing virgin, but the things he said made me feel so ashamed and off-kilter. I didn’t want to think about his hand, wet from my body, and so the path of least resistance was to do as he said. Still, I hesitated, seeing his erection outlined by the thin wool of his trousers, and then I told myself that I was being an idiot and bent down to unzip his pants.
There was a hook closure, and a button, and I could feel him hard and hot beneath my fingers as I fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings. It wasn’t like I took off a man’s pants every night of the week. Everything was backward, and he was looking at me, and I finally managed to find the tab of his zipper and tugged it down with a feeling of relief.
He was wearing boxers, or boxer-briefs—I couldn’t tell for sure—in some silky, dark material, and my fingers brushed over the fabric, and over the hot flesh beneath, before I flinched away.
Jesus Christ. I straightened again, and ran one hand through my hair, gathering myself. I had already crossed too many lines with him. I wasn’t going to touch him again.
“No happy ending for me, then,” he said, accurately reading my expression. “That’s fine. I’ll do a better job of it anyway.” And he reached down to draw his cock from his boxers, and wrapped his hand around it.
I had seen clients in almost every state: hungry, tired, lustful, irritated, weeping. They told me their secrets, complained about their wives, and touched me in every manner imaginable. I had witnessed the full range of human emotion and weakness.
But I had never seen an attractive man jerk off in front of me.
Well. First time for everything.
I stood there, still feeling wobbly from my orgasm, and watched him touch himself, his strong fingers rubbing at his thick cock. He was big, in a think-twice, shit-I’ll-be-feeling-that-tomorrow kind of way, but he didn’t show off the way some guys did. He didn’t seem to care about my reaction at all. I wasn’t an audience for him to perform for. I just happened to be there. He didn’t care what I thought about his dick; he just wanted to get off.
Watching him touch his cock, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, kindled new heat between my thighs. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to be turned on by this.
I closed my eyes.
“No you don’t,” he said. “Look at me.”
I shook my head, eyes still closed.
“Sassy,” he said. “Open your eyes.” A pause. “That’s an order.”
I swallowed, gathering my courage, and opened my eyes again.
“Don’t ever hesitate when I tell you to do something,” he said, brow furrowed, hand still working at his cock.
I nodded. There was nothing else I could do.
“Christ,” he said, and threw his head back and came into his cupped palm.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he moved his fingers again, and whatever I had been about to say was wiped clear out of my head. I made a pitiful, helpless whimpering noise and tightened my grip on his shoulders. There was no room for dignity anymore; I just had to focus on staying upright.
“What a temptation you are,” he said, his fingers moving steadily. “So responsive. You were made to quiver at a man’s touch.” He leaned forward and spoke into my ear, his words a hot puff of breath gusting across my cheek. “How soon will you come for me, sweetheart?”
I wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t, that I had never come for a client, that every orgasm was faked, and that he wouldn’t be the first to shatter my control. But I couldn’t say any of those things, because I wasn’t sure the last bit was true. My body responded to him in ways I didn’t understand and couldn’t account for, and if he kept touching me like that, I was going to totally embarrass myself.
Because it would be embarrassing. Losing control like that. I was a professional: calm, cool, and collected. Clients didn’t matter to me. They came and went. Nothing they did affected me. They touched me, and I smiled and cooed at them and pretended to be swept away, but none of it really mattered.
It didn’t matter. And I held onto that like a totem, something to shelter me from the reality of what I did for a living. As long as they didn’t really touch me, I was safe. I was just doing it for the money.
But if Turner broke through, if he made me crumble and want him—well, then everything he said was true. I was a slut. A common whore, desperate for a man’s caress.
I fought it. God knows I tried. I kept my eyes open and stared at him, trying for “defiant” but falling short and landing somewhere around “scared and rebellious” instead. He met my gaze evenly, maintaining steady eye contact even as he alternately rolled my clit in slow circles with his thumb and thrust his fingers in and out of my pussy. I wanted him to break first and look away, and then I would win and be able to maintain some illusion of control, even though my thighs shook and my nipples hardened into tight buds. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me look away first.
And so I stared at him, forcing my eyes to stay open, as he rubbed my clit faster and I felt the orgasm I both longed for and dreaded rise and crest over me like a wave.
It tumbled me to shore and dragged me under and back out to sea. I had never felt anything so powerful, such a strong physical sensation of powerlessness and joy. In that moment, he owned me. My eyelids dropped shut without my permission, and I felt every muscle in my body tense and quiver and then loosen all as one as the ecstasy slowly ebbed.
It ended, and I opened my eyes again, humiliated to find him still watching me steadily.
I felt my face flame hot, and I turned my head aside, not wanting to see the dark triumph in his gaze.
But he didn’t gloat, like I expected him to. Instead, he bent toward me and pressed a kiss to the hollow of my throat, right between my collarbones. And then he pulled his fingers from my body, and took his arm from around my waist, and lay back on the bed.
The bulge between his legs drew my gaze, and I flushed again when he saw me looking and spread his thighs slightly, inviting me to look more.
“Unzip my trousers,” he said, his voice rough and low.
I shook my head, opening my mouth to remind him of my ground rule, but he spoke before I could. “My hand is wet,” he said. “That’s your fault. You wouldn’t want me to ruin my pants.”
I was hardly a blushing virgin, but the things he said made me feel so ashamed and off-kilter. I didn’t want to think about his hand, wet from my body, and so the path of least resistance was to do as he said. Still, I hesitated, seeing his erection outlined by the thin wool of his trousers, and then I told myself that I was being an idiot and bent down to unzip his pants.
There was a hook closure, and a button, and I could feel him hard and hot beneath my fingers as I fumbled with the unfamiliar fastenings. It wasn’t like I took off a man’s pants every night of the week. Everything was backward, and he was looking at me, and I finally managed to find the tab of his zipper and tugged it down with a feeling of relief.
He was wearing boxers, or boxer-briefs—I couldn’t tell for sure—in some silky, dark material, and my fingers brushed over the fabric, and over the hot flesh beneath, before I flinched away.
Jesus Christ. I straightened again, and ran one hand through my hair, gathering myself. I had already crossed too many lines with him. I wasn’t going to touch him again.
“No happy ending for me, then,” he said, accurately reading my expression. “That’s fine. I’ll do a better job of it anyway.” And he reached down to draw his cock from his boxers, and wrapped his hand around it.
I had seen clients in almost every state: hungry, tired, lustful, irritated, weeping. They told me their secrets, complained about their wives, and touched me in every manner imaginable. I had witnessed the full range of human emotion and weakness.
But I had never seen an attractive man jerk off in front of me.
Well. First time for everything.
I stood there, still feeling wobbly from my orgasm, and watched him touch himself, his strong fingers rubbing at his thick cock. He was big, in a think-twice, shit-I’ll-be-feeling-that-tomorrow kind of way, but he didn’t show off the way some guys did. He didn’t seem to care about my reaction at all. I wasn’t an audience for him to perform for. I just happened to be there. He didn’t care what I thought about his dick; he just wanted to get off.
Watching him touch his cock, his eyes closed and his lips slightly parted, kindled new heat between my thighs. I didn’t want to watch. I didn’t want to be turned on by this.
I closed my eyes.
“No you don’t,” he said. “Look at me.”
I shook my head, eyes still closed.
“Sassy,” he said. “Open your eyes.” A pause. “That’s an order.”
I swallowed, gathering my courage, and opened my eyes again.
“Don’t ever hesitate when I tell you to do something,” he said, brow furrowed, hand still working at his cock.
I nodded. There was nothing else I could do.
“Christ,” he said, and threw his head back and came into his cupped palm.
