Borrowed Billionaire #3 Return to Mr. Thorne (5 page)

Now it was my turn to laugh, and I did. I slid down in my chair so his hand could work its way up along the tops of my thighs. Our table wasn't big, but it was in the way. I heard the scrape of him moving his chair closer to me, edging around the side of the table so he could gain access.

Both hands were on my legs now, so hot and electric, double the fun, running up and down the outer edges of my legs. My breathing changed, becoming more shallow. I parted my legs, inviting him up, but he kept his hands away from my valley. Oh, he was going to make me wait.

“Sorry I was late,” I said.

“Mmm.” One hand moved in between my legs, a few inches, then hesitated. “I thought you were going to stand me up.”

“I considered it.”

“Why?”

“Because I was mad at you.”

“Hmm.” The hand moved up my legs, under my skirt, and stopped, just inches from my moist panties. He stroked my inner thighs along the seam of my panties, up and down. I slid down a little and nudged toward him, urging him on.

The finger ran up over my panties and then down the center line, over top of the fabric, then back up again, and over my aching nub. I felt like jumping out of my seat, finding him in the dark, and jumping on his lap, but I held myself steady.

Let him come to you.

That had been the advice my mother gave me back when I was a teenager, dating for the first time.

“You have all the power,” my mother had said, and I wanted to believe she was right.

My breath caught in my throat as he stroked my nub.

“You were mad at me,” he said.

“Yeah, because you had phone sex with my friend Suzanne. You shouldn't have done that.”

He laughed and pulled his hand away, leaving me aching for more. In the pause that followed, I explored the table top with my hands and located a glass of ice water, and a round glass of something else. I stuck my finger in the top. “Is this wine?”

“Taste it.”

I took a sip of the ice water first, and then of the wine. It smelled like wine, tasted like wine, but in the dark, my taste buds didn't know what to think, except that it was good.

He said, “I don't usually drink white wine, but the staff here recommended white over red in case we spill on ourselves.” He chuckled. “Plus, white wine's cold, so you can tell when it's hitting your lips.”

I took another sip and noted the sensation. It was true that I could feel the weight of the glass, but it was only the coolness on my lips that let me know when I'd tipped back far enough. I drained the rest of the glass to help calm my nerves. I didn't normally drink so quickly in front of a date, but he couldn't see me, so I figured
what the hell.

He asked me, “How's work?”

“Exhausting, but satisfying.”

“You must enjoy helping people.”

“I do!” I smiled in the dark. “Wait, are you teasing me? Are you being sarcastic? I'm sure my job's pretty dull compared to your business deals.”

“Lexie, if I didn't want to know, I wouldn't ask.”

“Oh.”

“So, what sort of things did you do for your clients this week?”

“Mostly rearranging porcelain dolls.”

He chuckled. “That doesn't sound so exhausting.”

“You'd be surprised.”

“Surprise me,” he said, and he sounded sincere.

And so, I proceeded to tell him, all about the week's job for Mrs. Chong, and all of her silly dolls. The woman had four children, all grown up, with grandchildren, but she seemed to love her porcelain dolls even more than the grandkids.

Mr. Luthor Thorne laughed at all of this, as though it was the most absurd and entertaining thing he'd heard in ages.

“Porcelain dolls never let you down,” he said. “She's a smart woman.”

“I think she's lonely.”

“Hmm,” he said, and I imagined him smiling in the dark.

I said, “We could have had the job done in two days, but she booked me through to the end of the week.”

The hand returned to my leg, rubbing close to where I wanted to be touched, but not quite where I wanted him. The glass of wine had gone to my blood, and I was boiling. Boiling to be pleasured.

He said, huskily, “Sometimes there's no substitution for the human touch.”

“I'll say.” I took his hand and guided it up.

He hooked one finger in under my panties, stroked my clit three times, then angled his hand around and plunged one thick finger into my opening. I thrust against his hand and sighed. He fingered me some more, and his thumb flicked over my clit, setting it ablaze.

Something clinked, and I realized he was using his other hand to locate either his wine or his water glass, which made me giggle. “Don't spill any wine on yourself,” I said.

He swallowed audibly, and his hand got aggressive, diving in and out of me with more energy, his thumb bearing down on my clit, pulsing out pleasurable waves, pushing me up that mountain.

“Ohmygod, you're going to make me come,” I said.

“Moan for me.”

I did moan, softly, and I started to get up from my chair, but he forced me back down again, saying, “Sit. Lexie, sit.”

“Woof!”

He chuckled. “Good girl.”

“I wish I could see you,” I said. “I wonder if you have a tent in your pants.”

“Oh, I do. Whimper for me. I enjoy hearing your satisfaction.”

He rubbed me some more, waves of bliss pulsing out from those moving fingers, buried in a pool of wetness, merging with me. I cried out in pleasure, and he rewarded me with more pressure.

“Let me touch it,” I said. “Let me touch your cock.”

I leaned forward and found his knees under the table, nearly touching mine. I had to turn my body sideways, because the table was in the way, but I could reach with one hand, all the way up the fabric of his trousers.

The bulge was there, unmistakable. I traced my fingers up and down the shaft, through the fabric, finding the outline of the head. Even though the room was pitch black, and I saw nothing, I could imagine it in perfect detail, that perfect, stiff cock of his.

“That's enough,” he said, and he pulled his bulge just out of reach. “Save it for dessert.”

I leaned back and focused just on the sensations he was giving me with his fingers. The room smelled pleasant, like vanilla, but not the cheap air freshener stuff. I also smelled flowers, fresh flowers, plus my own sweat, my personal scent, coming off my soaked panties.

I ached for him, and even though he was giving me pleasure, touching me, I wanted more. I wanted him in my mouth. His cock, or his lips, or any nice bit of skin I could get my hands on.

“Kiss me,” I said.

“I will. Just wait. Be a good girl, Lexie. Are you a good girl?”

“Woof!”

He laughed again, and then he was quiet, focusing. He was feeling around carefully, running his fingers skilfully up and down my folds. By now, my panties, a better pair selected special for the occasion, were pulled off to the side. The back had ridden up the crack of my buttocks, and even that felt good. Everything felt so good. In the dark, in the quiet room, with only the scent of flowers and vanilla, I thought I might die from pleasure. There was soft music, too, the kind you don't notice.

“You like that,” he said. “Tell me you like it when I touch you.”

“I like it when you touch me.”

“Tell me to finger fuck you.”

“I don't like those dirty words.”

He eased back his pressure. “Say it.”

“Finger fuck me.” As I said the word
fuck
, a little tremor passed through me. It felt good to say that word. So I said it again. I said it over and over again. “Finger fuck me. Harder. Faster.”

“Uhh,” he groaned, his voice sounding urgent. I wasn't touching it, but I could sense his need, sense the stiffness of his cock.

He kept going with that skilled thumb and those fingers, pulsing over my nub, sliding in and out of me. I wondered about the waiter and our dinner, and then I forgot about everything. In the darkness, I slid my hands up to my breasts and squeezed my stiff nipples.

“Fuck me,” I said.

Pleasure ripped through me, so sudden and unexpected I gasped.

I continued, “Oh, fuck me. Oh, it's so good. Just like that. Yes. Good. Yes.”

He moaned again, barely audible. “You like that. I can feel you, gripping my fingers while I fuck you with my hand.”

I rocked my hips, helping the hand movements, the hand that was inside my panties, rubbing away at my swollen pussy.

“Come for me, Lexie.”

I pinched my nipples again.

“Come for me.”

Desperation flooded me. I imagined his big, fat cock, yearning to plunge into me, and I pinched my nipples yet again. The waves crested over me and I climaxed, rising up out of my chair, arching back on the backrest, ready to take all the fingers, his whole arm if he wanted.

“Good girl.”

I heard myself moaning and clamped my mouth shut.

“Oh, baby, don't stop,” he said, digging deeper with those fingers and smoothing over my pulsating nub with his thumb, amping up the final waves to ecstasy.

I came for him, came on his fingers, moaning and writhing in the dark. It was a desperate orgasm, one that didn't satisfy, but made me want more. I wanted another one.

He kept going, but I thought I heard someone at the door, and terror pulsed through me. Now my clit was too sensitive, vulnerable in the dark, trying to pull away.

Panting, I pushed his hand away, overwhelmed. “Wow,” I said.

Someone knocked on the door.

I quickly rearranged my panties and pulled down my skirt, not that anybody was going to see anything in that pitch-black room.

He said, “Come in.”

The door opened, and the scent of hot food filled the little room.

I grabbed for my ice water and sucked it back.

In the utter darkness, Mr. Thorne said, “Ah, that'll be the first course. Perfect timing.”

I'd pulled my panties back into place to cover myself, and the hem of my skirt as well, though I also had to laugh at my modesty, since the room was so dark that I could have been butt naked and the waitstaff wouldn't have known.

The person who brought in our first course explained what we'd be eating—a mushroom risotto. This was what I had ordered, and apparently Mr. Thorne had requested to have the same thing.

“Something in common,” he mused as the bowls were placed in front of us.

The person explained more about what we'd been eating, as well as the instructions for us to press the buzzer on the wall if we needed assistance. The person's voice was low, but didn't quite sound like a man. In the dark, I was unable to identify the sex of this person by voice! It was the strangest thing.

I asked, “Do people ever panic?”

“No, no,” the person assured us, and I thought,
yeah right.

After the person left, Mr. Thorne said to me, “Was that a guy or a girl?”

I laughed, loud. “I don't know!”

“And like hell can they guarantee people never panic.”

“I know, right? Like if my mother was here, she'd be hyperventilating right now.”

His spoon clinked against his bowl. The risotto smelled heavenly, all wine and chicken stock and deliciousness. I didn't even care about the next course.

He asked, “Is your mother afraid of the dark? Or claustrophobic? Many people are.”

Him talking about claustrophobia, plus my mother, put my nerves on edge. The black walls of the room seemed very near, and the air hot.

“She knows how to fend for herself,” I said. “She'd whip out her trusty lighter and set something on fire for light.”

Mr. Thorne laughed at this.

“I'm serious! She would. Never take my mother to a place like this.”

“I'll try not to,” he said, then he was silent, presumably eating the risotto.

I pinched my arm and screamed at myself in my head to not mention my mother again.

We ate all of the courses, enjoyed more wine, and tried to figure out the sex of the person serving us. At one point, we had the clever idea to ask the server his/her name, but the server said, “K.”

I asked, “And how do you spell that?”

“You don't,” K said. “It's just one letter, K. We all have one-letter names here.”

Mr. Thorne said, “Of course you do,” and laughed heartily.

I giggled. “Yes, of course. It makes perfect sense. Goodness knows you wouldn't want people to find out your identity. Oh, wait, but we can't see you, so ...”

The room was quiet, and I imaged K rolling his or her eyes.

K said, “Can I get you anything else?”

We'd already been served after-dinner coffee and dessert, so Mr. Thorne dismissed K.

We were alone, and the food had all been eaten. My dessert had been something with poached pears, raspberry sauce, and chocolate. I had a bad feeling I'd be craving it from that point on.

I was grateful the restaurant was fine dining, and therefore light portions. I felt full and satisfied, but not bloated like I would have after a big dinner with family or friends.

“Lexie,” he said, my name sounding like a command.

“Yes, Mr. Thorne?”

“Ooh, I like it when you call me Mr. Thorne.”

“Of course, Mr. Thorne.”

“Do you have your panties off yet?”