Bartered Bride: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 3 (3 page)

“No,” he said softly. “Not here.”

Not here?
You went down on me in a restaurant!
I wanted to scream. What made this place any different? I pushed my hips back, trying to force him inside, but he moved away, teasing me.

“Why won't you fuck me?” I whispered. I hated how plaintive my voice sounded.

“You misunderstood.” His voice rumbled. “I
will
fuck you, but not
...here,”
he said, then plunged his finger inside my slick channel.

I couldn't help it. I cried out softly, unable to hold back.

But my relief was short-lived because he immediately withdrew and swiped his finger against my asshole.

I stiffened all over. He couldn't mean to...

But he did. One by one, I felt each finger invade my pussy, and my pussy clung to each one, coating it in my juices. And each time he withdrew and further lathered my tight, puckered entrance.

“Are you a virgin here?” he wondered out loud. “Has anyone else taken this sweet little ass before me?”

I bit my lip, praying the assistant had disappeared into the shop to give us privacy. What did he want to hear?

His fingers departed and my ass and pussy quivered in anticipation.

Then he spanked me. Hard.

I gasped, tears springing to my eyes at the sharp, stinging sensation spreading over my ass cheeks and pussy lips.

“Answer me,” he said, his voice low and dark, but before I had a chance to do so, he spanked me again, and I cried out.

“Answer me.”

Another spank, the
crack
of flesh on flesh echoing in the small dressing room. There was no way the shop assistant couldn't hear it.

“Answer. Have you let another man fuck you in the ass?” Another spank, this one harder than any previous, and I sobbed, forcing myself to say the words.

“Ah! God, no!”

“Good,” he said, and I heard the rustle of fabric and the long, slow zip of his trousers unfastening.

I wish I could say what I did next was because I wanted to retain a shred of dignity, but really, I just wanted him to be as humiliated and helpless to resist our chemistry as I was.

In a smooth motion I stood up, letting the skirt fall back around my legs. I caught the barest glimpse of his face—shocked, as though no one had ever thought to defy him before—and then I was diving for his cock, my mouth wide open.

I'd surprised him. He stumbled backwards into the wall as I grabbed his hips. His hands reached for my hair, perhaps to pull me away, but I won the race.

In one fluid motion his cock was in my mouth—large and hot, the taste of sweet precum dripping onto my tongue, the smell of sweat and man going straight to my head—and I gave it a long, slow suck.

And just like that, Anton's control shredded.

His hips bucked, and I swallowed his cock down, reveling in his abandon. He thrust once, twice, then over and over, fucking my mouth. All I had needed was the courage to reach for him.

I had power. He wanted me. Not just the way a man wants a woman he sees and casually might want to fuck, but the way I wanted him. In the back of my mind, in the tiny part not reveling in the feel of his hard cock sliding against my lips and the quivering muscles of his thighs beneath my hands, I wondered if we would have come this far if our first meeting hadn't gone the way it had. If he had found me only mildly attractive, would we still be getting married?

Yes. He'd wanted a wife. That he actually
wanted
that wife must be a bonus.

He wanted
me.

The knowledge was fuel on the fire. My pussy ached as I reached up and wrapped a hand around the base of his cock, squeezing as I withdrew, trying to milk his orgasm from him. Above me, he grunted, a strangled sound, and tangled his hands in my hair.
“Felicia,”
he hissed, and I cupped his balls in my other hand, the petal-soft sack full to bursting in my palm.

I wanted to tell him to cum inside my mouth, but that would have required letting him go, and I just couldn't. All his power and wealth, all his tight self-control—it was nothing under the assault of my mouth on his hard shaft. Since we had first laid eyes on each other, he had tried to dominate me—emotionally, financially, physically, legally, sexually—but I wasn't going to go down that easy. He was going to have to fight for it.

I moaned around the heavy shaft, swirling my tongue over the soft head as I withdrew and he let out a groan, loud and unrehearsed. I felt his balls tighten in my hand, and I gently closed my fingers around the top of his sack and gave it a soft tug.

“Jesus!” His voice sounded nothing like the smooth, controlled purr I'd grown accustomed to, and it inflamed me. Suddenly I wanted him to cum so hard he screamed, just like I had. I wanted to swallow his load, keep it inside as a reminder that
I
had gotten the better of him for a change. He had no say in the matter. He would have to live knowing I had milked him dry, and he hadn't been able to resist.

I jerked my head and tightened my grip on the base of his shaft, consuming him as I squeezed and released, squeezed and released, and each withdrawal of my mouth had my tongue curling around the head of his cock. I whimpered in the back of my throat, small, insistent, rhythmic cries, and he answered me with his own.

Within moments his balls bounced and surged in my hand, and his body jerked and shuddered. A wordless cry wrenched from his throat, and then he was spilling his hot cum inside my mouth and down the back of my throat.

I'd never liked swallowing cum, but it had never tasted so sweet. It tasted like victory.

I gulped it all down, swallowing around his cock, sucking more and more as his hips jerked and he moaned, almost sobbing as I wrung him dry.

At last he was done. He released my hair, his hands falling to his sides. I was woefully unsatisfied, but for a change I didn't really mind. I had finally turned the tables on Anton Waters and taken control of my destiny in some small way.

I withdrew, giving the soft head of his cock one last lick, sending an aftershock through his body, and smiled. Delicately, I cleaned my face and smiled, watching the thick rod in front of me pulse with his heartbeat.

Reaching out I placed a hand on his thigh and rubbed it, admiring the hard muscles there.

Then I frowned.

Beneath my hand he was shaking. Literally shaking. Not just from pleasure, but from something else. Frowning I looked up at him.

The expression on his face sent a bolt of cold through my heart.

He stared at me, unseeing, lost.
Scared.
His brows were drawn over his beautiful green eyes, and his full mouth was parted, but not in pleasure. He looked like a man devastated, struggling to catch his breath.

Apprehension cut through my arousal. Unsure what to do, I reached for his hand.

“Anton?” I whispered. The first time I'd ever called him by his name.

With a physical jerk, he came crashing back to reality, his eyes focusing on my face.

“Don't,” he said. “Don't do that again.”

I backed away and stood while he ran a shaking hand over his face.

“I...” I had no idea what to say. “I didn't mean—”

He turned, opened the door, and walked out of the dressing room.

I stood inside, alone, suddenly feeling lost and adrift. I had only wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine. Instead, I had traumatized him. With a blow job.

What just happened?

My own fingers shook as I wiggled out of the wedding dress. I didn't bother to hang it up again, just left it on the floor as I stuffed myself back into my clothes and hurried out into the boutique, regret and anger warring for dominance in my chest, though why I was angry—or at whom—was a mystery.

Anton wasn't in the boutique, and I rushed outside. A wave of relief hit me when I saw the car was still sitting at the curb, and Zachary stood waiting to let me in. He opened the door and I clambered in back.

I found my groom-to-be sitting motionless and staring out the window at passing cars.

I opened my mouth and started to babble. “Anton, I'm sorry, I... I didn't know...”

He turned his head and regarded me coolly. There was none of the fear, none of the devastation that I had seen still on his face. He looked at me with a vague indifference that I found even more terrifying than anger.

“We are going back to your apartment,” he said softly. “You will gather the necessities. A change of clothes. Your toiletries. Whatever else you need.”

The blood drained from my face. “What?”

He turned and looked out the window again. “We are going to Las Vegas to be married.”

I stammered for a second. “But.. but I thought we would be married here. Aren't we going to have... you know... friends and family and stuff?” Did he even have any friends? It was like asking if God had friends. Sure, maybe Vishnu came around every once in a while, but it was probably just awkward shop chat...

Okay, now my
brain
was babbling. That's how bad things were.

He watched me. “I find I wish to marry you immediately,” he said. “I have a penthouse suite on the strip and there is no waiting period.”

I stared at him as the car began to move. “Are you sure?” I said.

He looked at me and said nothing. The same indifferent mask he had worn at our first meeting had fallen back into place, and I realized I had glimpsed, for a second, the man behind what had to be a carefully constructed facade. I had breached his defenses, and he was reasserting his control.

Somehow, the knowledge calmed me. He was human after all, and I could reach him. My fears eased a little and I licked my lips.

“All right,” I said. “Let's go.”

The car rolled through the city streets.

*

The sun was sinking in the sky when Anton's private jet touched down in Las Vegas. He had relegated himself to the front of the aircraft, telling me it was bad luck to see me before the wedding, though I privately suspected he was still recovering from whatever had rocked him in the dressing room. Whatever the reason, I was glad to give him space. He had requested I tell no one about our pending wedding, and I abided by that request. I didn't really want to talk to anyone anyway. I was too busy thinking.

Two separate cars met us at the airport, and when we arrived at the chapel he had chosen I was hustled by strangers into a dressing room, illuminated by a window looking out on the setting desert sun and a buzzing fluorescent light.

Inside there hung two pieces of clothing: one beautiful—and elegant—wedding gown, and one corset.

The corset was like no corset I'd ever seen before. It looked like someone had forgotten to add the top half. A pair of lace panties were laid over the chair in the corner, a white lace garter belt and white stockings sat next to them, and two white satin pumps with the highest heels I'd ever seen sat on the floor.

I took the corset off the door and tried to figure out how to put it on.

A few minutes later I was still studying it and trying not to think about what was about to happen when a knock came on the door. I retreated to the far side of the room where a screen stood and hid behind it, only leaving my head poking out from around the corner. “Come in!”

The door opened and Anton entered.

My breath caught.

He looked incredible, his dark hair spilling over his collar, his green eyes perfectly accented by the elaborate gray ascot he wore. The vest was of the same gray pattern, and tucked into his pocket was a dusky purple flower I couldn't identify.

For the barest of moments I felt giddy that
I
was marrying this man. Given my track record, that I was getting married at all was a pretty big accomplishment.

Then I realized something.

“It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding,” I told him.

“It would be worse luck if I could not enjoy the wedding,” he told me. Whatever he had planned, it sent a shiver up my spine. I lifted my chin and stared him down as he stalked across the room. He plucked the panties, garter belt, and stockings from the chair and held them out. “Put these on,” he told me.

Ducking behind the screen, I hastily disrobed and did so. I'd never worn a garter belt before. It was oddly thrilling.

“Done,” I said.

“The corset. Come out and give it to me.”

My breasts were bare and my nipples tight, but I didn't cover them. I slipped from behind the screen and handed him the corset.

His eyes devoured me, but that was all. “Turn around,” he instructed. I did so, and he lifted my arms and fitted the corset around me and laced it up, pulling it so tight I saw black spots. When he was done, I had a waist at least four inches smaller than it should have been. I stood straight, my breasts thrusting out to him. I saw his fingers twitch when I turned back, as though he thought to reach for me.

“Sit,” he commanded.

On shaking legs, I walked to the chair and sat. He withdrew something from his pocket and approached.

It looked like a bullet, but larger. Maybe an egg. Smooth and black, he held it between thumb and forefinger. The light of the setting sun gleamed on its surface.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked me.

I shook my head.

He reached into his pocket again and took out something else. It looked like an iPod. He pressed a button.

The little egg in his fingers began to buzz. It was a vibrator.

My mouth went dry as he knelt in front of me. Gently he placed a hand on my chest, above my aching breasts, and pushed me back into the chair's generous cushions. I let him. My knees parted, and he tugged the waistband of my panties. Then, just as he was about to press the bullet into place, he paused.

He looked up at me. In the light from the windows, his green eyes were illuminated and intense. No longer lost, but certain.

“Felicia,” he said, “I want you to listen to me very carefully.” He took a deep breath, and when the words came out, they were clipped and slow and utterly clear:

“You can say no.”