The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) (14 page)

Fine. I let the dopey, heavy-lidded look fall from my face. “So what do you want me to do, then?”

“React,” he said. “Honestly. Genuine sensation. If I wanted to pay for crummy acting, I would watch porn.”

He was a jerk, and his disdain turned me on. We made a perfect dysfunctional pair. He jerked his chin at me, ordering me closer, and I stepped toward him, one foot in front of the other, until I was close enough to touch.

He held the scarf in one hand and caressed me with the other. He started by cupping my chin, and then drew his hand down my neck and ran his fingers along the sensitive arc of my collarbone. I shivered, and he smiled, predatory, and dropped his hand to my right breast. He cupped it and squeezed my nipple between his fingers. I gasped as pleasure shot through me. He moved to my other breast and gave it the same treatment. My nipples were tight, oversensitive, and when he bent and used his mouth on me, I flinched away without meaning to.

“Hold still,” he said, hand on my waist, holding me there, and so I curled my hands into fists and used the small pain of my nails cutting into my palms to distract me from the molten pleasure flowing through my body.

He sucked on my nipples until they were red and swollen and my hips were unconsciously rocking back and forth with every motion of his lips and teeth. I started to think that maybe I could come just from that, and wouldn’t
that
be embarrassing: reduced to orgasm just from him sucking on my tits.

He pulled away just as I was starting to get seriously concerned. His mouth was wet. I glanced away, overwhelmed, unsure how to react. He slid his hand from my waist to my hip and then down between my legs. He tucked his fingers into the waistband of my thong and then stayed there, motionless, waiting, until I got curious and looked up at him again. As soon as our eyes met, he pushed his hand inside my panties and touched me where I was slick and swollen.

My legs felt shaky, like my muscles weren’t going to hold me up much longer. I clung to Turner’s shoulders while he stroked me, staring deeply into my eyes the whole time. I felt exposed and powerless and I
wanted
him. Each movement of his fingers made the liquid heat between my legs pulse hotter. He could have asked me for anything, right then, and I would have said yes. I would have given him anything he wanted.

“You’re ready for me,” he said. “That didn’t take long.” He pulled his hand away. I opened my eyes, realizing only then that they had fallen shut. He was looking down at me with a strange expression on his face, almost tender, but I knew that wasn’t it. The only thing he felt for me was lust.

“Give me your hands,” he said.

Right. I had forgotten about the scarf. I held my hands in front of me while he tied my wrists together with the fabric, leaving a small span of a few inches between them. I tugged at the scarf, testing the knots, but they held fast.

“What do you want me to do?” I asked. My voice came out as a husky rasp.

He nodded toward the coat rack. “Set your hands on one of the hooks. I’m going to fuck you like that, standing up.”

Was he joking? The coat rack didn’t look very sturdy. “It’s going to fall over,” I said.

“You’ll have to be very careful that it doesn’t,” he said.

I bit my lip, hoping he wasn’t serious, but he looked pretty serious. Okay. I turned and took the few steps to the coat rack, and raised my hands above my head to hook the scarf over one of the gracefully arched hooks. It was high enough that I had to go up on the balls of my feet. The whole situation seemed like a recipe for disaster. If I didn’t hold perfectly still and balanced, I would topple over and take the coat rack with me.

“I really think I’m going to fall,” I said.

“You won’t fall,” he said. He came up behind me and set his hands firmly on my waist. I leaned back into his grip, feeling a little more stable. “I won’t let you.”

I swallowed and nodded, not quite sure I believed him, but not willing to argue about it.

“I need to let you go for a minute,” he said. I straightened up again, balancing my weight on my toes, and heard the sound of a zipper, and then a crinkling noise that I quickly identified as a condom wrapper. Jesus Christ. This was really happening.

My body’s reaction told me that it wasn’t happening fast enough.

Turner wrapped one arm around my waist and pressed the front of his body against my back, giving me a solid foundation to lean against. His other hand dipped between my legs, tugging my thong to one side, and then I felt the blunt head of his cock nudging against me. I drew in a deep breath, waiting to feel him shove into me, but instead I felt his fingers dipping just inside, holding me open, and he guided himself in slowly, slowly, rocking his hips in tiny thrusts, sliding deeper every time, until his thighs pressed against my ass and he was all the way in.

“Oh my God,” I said, without meaning to, because I never knew that sex could feel this way. I was open, taken,
claimed
, and I felt my body adjusting around him, clenching and then releasing again, making way. I’d been afraid that it would hurt, after so long, but I was so wet and ready, and he’d been so careful, that all I felt was pleasure. It built in me like the tension before an earthquake, and I knew it wouldn’t take long for me to shake to pieces.

He chuckled behind me, somehow managing to make it obvious that he was laughing
at
me. “Don’t lose your balance. I’ll be very displeased.”

The dark promise in his voice made me swallow and flex my hands in their binding. I teetered on the balls of my feet, trapped between Turner’s body behind me and the anchor point of my wrists above my head. There was no leverage, and no way for me to move against him. I was a passive participant, helpless to do anything but take what he wanted to give me.

I liked it.

Like
wasn’t a strong enough word, but I couldn’t think of anything better. My brain had stopped cooperating with me. My skin tingled everywhere that Turner touched it. After being dulled to pleasure for so long, so many years of going through the motions with clients, Turner had finally shocked me back to life, and I felt raw and stripped bare, newly born.

His arm tightened around my waist, hand spreading flat across my ribs as he worked his hips against me. After his initial entry, he wasn’t slow or careful. He
fucked
me in deep, rapid strokes, using my body for his pleasure—and for mine. The drag of his cock as he slid out of me and pressed back in made my eyes roll back in my head. If he had taken his time, been gentle, I probably would have gotten annoyed—I wasn’t made of glass—but the casual way he manhandled me just added more fuel to the fire burning inside me.

I heard myself cry out, and he pressed his smile to the side of my neck. I fought through the haze of arousal clouding my brain and gasped out, “Are you getting your money’s worth?”

“Every penny,” he said, sounding ridiculously smug, and slid his free hand between my legs to stroke at my wet slit.

It felt too good. I tried to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go. I bit the inside of my cheek and tried to fight what I knew was coming. It was too soon. I hadn’t gotten enough, yet.

“No you don’t,” he said. “Hold still.”

“I can’t,” I said, voice cracking slightly. “Alex.”

“Oh, if you’re using my first name, it
must
be serious,” he said, fingers moving a little faster. I cried out again, overcome, and he held me close and said, “Let it happen.”

“I can’t,” I said again, but then I proved myself to be a liar. The tension in my thighs and the throbbing between my legs reached the point of no return. Turner slid his thumb over my clit and twisted his hips just so, and I squeezed hard around his cock and came like the world was ending.

He never stopped moving within me, and the pleasure just went on and on until I was wrung out and gasping. And he still didn’t stop.

“Alex,” I said, close to the limit of what I could handle.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, sounding a little short of breath. “Not much longer.” He finally took his hand from between my legs and used it to grasp my hip and pull me back against him to meet each thrust.

I started to feel like I might be able to come again.

There wouldn’t be time for that, though, because Turner made a ragged noise and slammed his hips against me a few times, and I’d been with enough men to know an orgasm when I saw it. Or heard it.

Weirdly, I felt a little disappointed.

Maybe there would be a round two, later.

He was careful, pulling out of me, but I hissed at the feeling anyway. I was swollen and a little sore. No harm done, though. Mostly, I felt
good
.

He unhooked my hands from the coat rack, and picked out the knots in the scarf. Hands free, I shook my wrists out, feeling blood rush back into my fingertips. I was shy, suddenly, and didn’t know what to say. Thanks for the awesome fuck? Let’s have dinner and do it again?

That last one sounded good. “Let’s have dinner and do it again,” I said.

He raised one eyebrow at me. “I’m not eighteen, you know.”

“You’re telling me you can’t get it up twice in one night? It’s like 6:00,” I said. “You just need to refuel.”

“Well, in that case,” he said. “The takeout menus are in the drawer to the left of the sink.”

I grinned. It was going to be an awesome night.

I woke up alone the next morning.

Was that a twinge of disappointment I felt? Couldn’t be.

I sat up in bed, gummy-eyed, with my hair in my eyes and a terrible taste in my mouth. That’s what I got for not brushing my teeth the night before. We had gorged ourselves on teriyaki and screwed again, a long, decadent fuck on Turner’s bed. The second time was even better than the first. I had intended to go home that night, but ended up passing out instead. God only knew what time it was. Turner was probably already gone. I hoped he had at least left me some coffee.

I got out of bed and went into Turner’s bathroom. The single toothbrush had been joined by another one, still in its little box. Turner sure knew how to treat a lady. Brushing my teeth was an almost religious experience. I splashed some water on my face and raked my fingers through my hair, and decided I was more or less presentable.

I didn’t know where my clothes were, though.

Hopefully it was still early enough that I wouldn’t, like, shock the housekeeper or something.

I padded out into the living room. Turner was sitting on the couch reading the newspaper and drinking a cup of coffee. Not out of a mug—an actual cardboard cup of coffee that he had obviously left the apartment to buy.

Something was deeply weird about the whole situation. What kind of a person didn’t even keep coffee in their apartment?

“Hi,” I said. I was kind of surprised that he hadn’t bailed on me. “Do you know where my clothes are?”

He lowered the paper and looked me up and down. It was a slow, appreciative look, and I posed a little for him, drawing my shoulders back to show off my tits. He smirked at me, like he knew exactly what I was doing, and said, “I threw them out.”

My jaw dropped. “
What
? That was my favorite t-shirt! You can’t just go around tossing out people’s clothes! What is
wrong
with you?”

“Really, Sassy. You’re an adult. There’s no need to dress like a rebellious teenager.”

“Yeah, I’m an adult, so that means I can dress however I want,” I said, feeling incredibly annoyed. What a pompous asshole! I couldn’t believe he had
thrown out
my clothes. It was like Pretty Woman if the dude had been an enormous jerk.

“I got you something more appropriate,” he said, and motioned to the shopping bag on the floor beside the sofa.

I scowled at him. “It’s not like I wear stripper clothes in public,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with shorts and a t-shirt. That’s what every girl my age in New York wears all summer! You’re a judgmental psycho.”

“You aren’t
every girl
,” he said. “As long as you’re with me, I expect you to maintain a certain level of personal appearance.”

Good grief. Still muttering darkly, and stark naked, I crouched down to see what he’d gotten for me.

It wasn’t actually that bad. I’d been afraid of a tweed skirt suit or something, like an old lady would wear, but it was just a sundress, with sleeves that went down to the elbow and a scooped neck. And a pair of leather sandals, to replace my flip-flops.

“How did you know my size?” I asked, suspicious, and then realized the answer: he had looked at the labels on my clothes, of course. “Never mind. Dumb question. You know everything about me, right?”

“Hardly,” he said. He folded the paper and set it aside. “Sassy. I should apologize. I didn’t realize that you were so… attached to your clothing.”

I sat back on my heels and looked up at him. He looked genuinely sorry, and it occurred to me that maybe he’d been trying to do something nice. He’d gone out—or had someone go out for him, probably; I had a hard time imagining Turner shopping for clothes—and bought me a pretty dress that he thought I would like. So, still weird and infuriating, but my mom always told me that people’s intentions were what mattered. Okay. I could be gracious. “I’m still mad at you for throwing out my t-shirt, but the dress is nice. So thanks.”