The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) (10 page)

And then it was just me, naked except for my shoes, waiting for him to touch me.

“Get on the bed,” he told me.

I wanted to, but I also didn’t, because who knew how I would embarrass myself this time. So I stalled. “Boring,” I said. “We used the bed last time.”

“No.
I
used the bed. This time
you’ll
be on it. New and different,” he said. “It’s a shame you don’t know how to keep your mouth shut. I’m not paying you to talk.”

Well, fair enough. There probably wasn’t a man alive who would pay to listen to me talk. I walked over to the bed and did my best to climb onto it gracefully, which wasn’t easy, because the mattress was about eight feet tall. Turner didn’t laugh, though, as I clambered on and arranged myself against the pillows, reclining with one knee drawn up, showing him everything he wanted.

He waited until I was settled, and then turned and opened a drawer in a small side table.

“There’s nothing in there,” I said. “There’s tissues over here, and—”

“I don’t want tissues,” he said, cutting me off. “Stupid of you to think I would show up unprepared.” He took something from the drawer and shut it again, his back turned to me so I couldn’t see what he was holding. Maybe a blindfold, or those stupid fuzzy handcuffs that some clients liked to use. I hated them because they dug into my wrists and I had to be really careful not to break them or tug too hard and yank them open.

“Your ground rule is that you don’t touch me,” he said.

I swallowed. Where was he going with this? “That’s right.”

“Ample loopholes,” he said. “My favorite kind of rule.” He turned, then, and I saw what he was holding in his hand.

It was a glass dildo, curved at one end.

Oh dear Christ.

Was he really going to—

“Spread your legs,” he said, which sounded like he definitely intended to.

I flushed all over, face heating and pussy growing even wetter. I spread my thighs apart as he approached the bed and climbed onto the mattress. The bed sank beneath his weight as he knelt between my legs.

He was still wearing his shoes.

Funny the things you fixated on when you were totally freaked out and about to cream all over the sheets.

He held the dildo in his left hand. I couldn’t take my eyes off of it: the fat rounded tip, the smooth shaft. He was going to put that thing in me, and I was going to—

Well. I was
definitely
going to lose control of myself.

Some things were foregone conclusions.

“I should have made you take that damn wig off,” Turner said. “Too late now.”

“I can take it off,” I said, and then wished I had kept my mouth shut. Putting the wig back on was a pain, and it got crumpled unless I put it on a wig form. But I wanted him to be pleased with me, and if he liked me better without the wig, well, I would do whatever it took to keep him looking my way.

Stupid. There was nothing appealing about him.

His body, maybe. Sure. Okay. He was hot.

But he was a
jerk
, and a creep, and I didn’t like him at all.

God, I was really bad at lying to myself.

“Leave it alone,” he said. “I don’t feel like waiting while you fumble around with it.” Still grasping the dildo in one hand, he slid his other hand between my legs, grazing over the soft skin of my thighs before his fingertips made contact with my slick, heated flesh. I inhaled sharply, and he moved his fingers higher, until they were pressing against my swollen clit.

I bit my lip, teeth digging in hard, fighting to hold back the cries that wanted to escape from my mouth. Every time he touched me, it was like there were angels singing in the sky, fat little cherubs. Blindfolded cherubs, though. I didn’t want any angelic babies watching what I was up to.

“Breathe,” he said, and then, without any other warning, slid the dildo into me.

I did cry out then, teeth and cherubs be damned. It was cool and unyielding, not at all the temperature or texture of a real penis, and that somehow made it more overwhelming than if Turner had just pulled out his cock and fucked me. He slid it in and in and
in
, until I was sure I couldn’t take anymore, and then he spun it in a quick circle, an arc of pleasure so strong I felt the muscles in my thighs twitch in response.

“I wonder,” he said, taking his other hand away from my clit and curling it over the wing of my hip, holding me down. “Can I make you come just from this?”

I took a deep breath. “Probably not,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.

“I’ll take that as a challenge, then,” he said, with a quick flash of white teeth that didn’t quite count as a smile. He moved the dildo so that the curved head pushed gently upward, toward the ceiling, and my toes curled at the wave of ecstasy that rolled through me. “There we are,” he said, and pressed again, and again.

My eyes fluttered shut. He kept moving the dildo inside me, and each push gave me that same tight, eager feeling, like I was building toward something odd and wonderful. It didn’t feel the way it did when someone touched my clit. That was a surface pleasure, easy and uncomplicated. This was deeper, stranger, and still mysterious to me. The feelings took root in my belly and grew up through my chest, into my arms and legs, spiraling along all of my nerves, until I was a squirming mess of desire and raw sensation, taken past the point of thought and into a world of pure bodily feeling.

“There we are,” Turner said again, from a great distance.

I ached. I was on fire. I rocked my hips up to meet every push of the dildo. I didn’t care if he thought I was greedy or a slut; I just wanted him to keep going. I had never felt anything like this, and I didn’t want it to stop.

“You’re going to make a mess,” Turner said. “Come on, then. Let me see you.”

I was so out of at that point that his words didn’t mean anything to me. They were just background noise, a white roar in my ears. I understood the tone of his voice, though the raw undercurrent that said he
wanted
me.

I had been with a lot of clients over the last two years. They all wanted me: my body, my pleasure, my attention. But the way Turner looked at and touched me, somehow rough and careful at the same time, made me feel like he wanted
me
.

He moved the dildo again, his fingers digging into my hip, and the pleasure twisting in my belly rose up too high for my body to contain, and I spilled over into orgasm.

It wasn’t like any orgasm I’d ever experienced. It felt
tighter
somehow, deeper inside me, and it went on and on while I clamped down on the dildo and shuddered and throbbed. And then I felt Turner’s fingers at my clit again, teasing lightly and sending me into a fresh wave of spasms.

I curled away from him, finally, totally unable to take any more. I lay on my side on the bed, panting, feeling a droplet of sweat roll down one of my breasts.

Turner’s hand slid from my hip to my knee, stroking my thigh, soothing me.

“What did you
do
to me?” I said, when my brain cells had recovered enough to produce language.

“I thought you might like that,” he said. “Now roll onto your front.”

I obeyed with rubbery limbs, and flopped down with my face pressed into the mattress. “What are you going to do?”

“Do you really have to ask that question?” he asked, and I heard his zipper slide down.

I pushed up onto my elbows, suddenly concerned, but he curled one hand around the back of my neck and pressed me back against the bed. “Calm down,” he said. “I told you I’m not going to force you.” I heard a sound, and tried to turn my head to look, but he kept his hand where it was, pushing me down, and I couldn’t move.

Maybe I should have been afraid, but I wasn’t. For some stupid reason, I trusted him.

The noise got louder and came faster, and I realized what it was. He was jerking himself off. Looking at my bare ass and touching himself. The realization made me flush all over. I thought he was probably trying to make me feel dirty, but it wasn’t working. It had the opposite effect. I felt like a queen, and he had come to lay offerings at my feet.

“Christ,” he said, and groaned loudly, and then I felt a splash of heat against my lower back.

Holy shit, he just
came
on me.

That wasn’t exactly what I meant about laying offerings.

His hand on my neck relaxed, and I pushed up onto my elbows, indignant. “Why don’t you give a girl a little warning?”

He laughed. “You loved it. Hold still, I’ll clean you up.”

I lay there, annoyed and kind of turned on, while he pulled a box of tissues from the side table and mopped me off. “I’m not a living porno,” I said. “Cumshots aren’t classy.”

“And you’re a real classy girl,” he said, with a hard edge to his voice that I didn’t like. I turned my face away from him. Emotional whiplash. He’d just neatly dethroned me. I was back to being nothing but a whore.

“Don’t sulk,” he said. “It isn’t attractive.” I heard his zipper glide up again, and he climbed off the bed and tossed the tissue in the wastebasket. I turned to look at him. He was neat and tidy again, every stitch of clothing neatly in place. You would never know that two minutes ago he’d been stroking himself off onto my bare ass.

“I’m not sulking,” I said.

“Women always say that, and it’s never true,” he said. “Now. I’m going to order some wine, and then we’ll sit down and have a conversation.”

“I thought you weren’t paying me to talk,” I said.

“Of course I’m not,” he said. “This is different. I have a proposition to make.”

“So,” Turner said, leaning back against the sofa.

I swirled my wine in its glass. I didn’t like red wine and didn’t ever drink it—didn’t drink much at all, really—but I was happy to hold it in my hand and pretend I was a sophisticated woman of the world. Drinking red wine meant you were a
real
grownup. I had never graduated from the wine coolers I drank with my friends in high school: sweet as sin and barely even alcoholic. I lifted the glass to my nose and inhaled. It even
smelled
expensive, something I couldn’t afford to drink.

I glanced up, feeling a little self-conscious about sitting there smelling Turner’s wine. He was watching me with one eyebrow quirked. Busted.

“I didn’t realize you were a wine aficionado,” he said.

“Oh yeah, love the stuff,” I said. “Great nose. Sexy body. Notes of, uh, cinnamon and bergamot.” I didn’t even know what bergamot was, I’d just heard a client say the word once and thought it sounded fancy. Hopefully it was something food-related.

God, I was such an idiot.

“Bergamot,” he said. “Right.” He took a sip from his glass, eyes never leaving my face. “Sassy. Let me propose something.”

“Marriage?” I said. “But we hardly know each other!”

“Yes, you’re very amusing,” he said dryly. “Now be quiet and listen to me. I’m a possessive man, and I don’t share well with others. I want you, and that means I want you all to myself. No doubt I’ll grow tired of you soon, but in the meantime, I’d like to establish an exclusive arrangement.”

What a jerk: telling me how much he wanted me and then insulting me in the same breath. Nobody ever
got tired
of me. All of my regular clients kept coming back, year after year, unless they got married or their wife found out or something. But that wasn’t
getting tired
. That was just… moving on. “An arrangement,” I said.

“That’s right,” he said. “Let’s say a month. No other clients, no dancing. Only me.”

I scoffed. “No clients for a
month
? My regulars will all forget about me. I’m sure you’re going to tell me you’ll make it worth my while, but it doesn’t matter how much you pay me if I don’t have any clients when I come back to work.”

“Tell them you’re going on vacation,” he said. “Let them think about you lying on the beach in a bikini. Absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

I leaned back against the couch, considering. That might work, but it was still a risk. Right now, I had a monopoly: my regulars kept coming back to me because I never gave them the chance to sample the club’s other options. I was at work pretty much every night, and I had them on a schedule. I knew which one would show up on Tuesday evening, and I made sure to be available. But if I was gone for a month, they’d all have to turn to one of the other girls. Maybe Xanadu, or even Fresh Meat. And what if they decided they liked her
better
than me?

Dancing wouldn’t last forever. Eventually I would get old and have to quit. And it wasn’t like I would be able to find other work after that. I didn’t have any skills. I was basically unemployable, aside from stripping. I needed to save up enough money to support myself and everyone in my family for the rest of our lives. So I had to make every night count while I could, and I was terrified of doing anything that would threaten my earning potential. Even for Turner.