BILLIONAIRE (Part 3 & Part 4) (2 page)

I stood from the bed, tentatively taking a few steps as he watched me.  The fullness inside me was insanely lush with sensation.  I could walk normally, but each step I took washed me in a low, ecstatic t
ide of near-orgasmic pleasure.  I experimented with a few poses and a few stretches.  Alexander’s eyes as he watched me were like obsidian jewels.

I put o
n, as he’d suggested, a kilt-like very-short black skirt and a white V-neck top that was fitted, low-cut and cropped, so a small stripe of skin showed between the waistband of my skirt and the hem of the top.  I wore, as I was now becoming accustomed to, nothing underneath.  But then I wondered if this skirt was a little
too
short to go without.  In my former life, I wouldn’t even have considered wearing a) a skirt this short, and b) nothing underneath it.  Times had most definitely changed.  I may as well have been wearing a bikini for all the coverage it was giving me.  I brushed my hair and left it long and loose.  And I put on some mascara, a hint of kohl eyeliner and some pink lip gloss.

Alexander was wearing
a white polo shirt.  His jeans were still unfastened.  And his erection had gained momentum as he’d watched me dress.

“Are you going to holster your gun, cowboy?  That’s hardly a way to greet your guests.”

“I want
you
to holster my gun for me.”

I went to him, taking his hot, rearing cock in my hands.  It was perfectly shaped, thick and long, like stone wrapped in silk.  “Do you want me to
–”

“Yes.  But they’re probably already here.  And it’s not going to make a difference.  I’ll just get instantly hard
again the minute I look at you.”  He seemed almost pissed off about the pronouncement.

I couldn’
t help smiling as I eased his oversized erection into his jeans, carefully tucking it to the side as I buttoned his fly.  His hands were on my bare ass as he pulled me up against him, cradling me against the hard pressure of him.  Reflexively, I began to rock slightly, easing my aching clit against him.  If I could just find a casual rhythm before he suspected exactly what I was doing, it would be
so easy
.  But he held me still, fully reading my intent, unrelenting.  “Don’t forget who you belong to,” he said, and the comment struck something in me.  He hadn’t said
Don’t forget who you work for,
or
Don’t forget whose  assistant you are. 
He’d expressed his ownership again and instead of arguing about my independence or my equality, all I wanted to do, perversely, was not only to agree but to kneel down in front of him and take his raging manhood into my mouth.

But he was pulling me out the door.

Alexander’s friends – all five of them – were, to a man, drop-dead gorgeous.  Not as gorgeous as Alexander himself, but certainly above average in the virility department.  Alexander held my hand as he introduced me to them, and glowered slightly at their open-mouthed reaction to, well,
me
.

I wasn’t used to this kind of response from  men.  In the past, I’d always worn loose, baggy clothing. 
I’d worn glasses for many years, for reading, which meant that I’d worn them most of the time; I’d only ditched them for contacts a few months ago.  I’d rarely thought about fashion or dressed to showcase my assets.  I’d been too immersed in academic achievement.  Plenty of men had asked me out in college, but I’d been completely focused on getting through with flying colors that the dating scene had seemed an unnecessary distraction.  The opportunity to flaunt or flirt hadn’t really come up all that often.  I’d dated a few guys, but the relationships had always sputtered out before they’d really even begun.  I knew the murky secrets of my past made me wary and prevented me from getting too close to people.  To men.  The dark, repressed memories swirled behind my thoughts but I denied them.  I knew why I’d hidden myself.  I knew why I’d never allowed anyone to get close to me.  Until Alexander.  With bizarre and forceful clarity, he strode through my reservations as though I’d never even had any.  As though I was
normal
.  As though my childhood was as clean and pure as the driven snow.  With him, that’s how I felt.  Free and protected.  And I had no idea how he was able to release me in this way.  His very presence was a perfect cocktail of intoxicating aphrodisiac and emancipating license.  Like he’d opened a door in me, releasing manic facets of myself I never knew existed, then fed those appetites with lust and champagne and fever.

And n
ow, with my newfound sexuality, which had taken on the ferocity of a rampaging bull, the attention of these rich, handsome men was flattering, and reminded me, disconcertingly, of my hidden secret.  If Alexander had left the room, I might have shrunk back into myself like a hothouse flower under a sudden gust of cold air.  But his presence was humidity and sun, fueling me, burning me and opening me like I’d never known.

I’d almost become used to the effects of the rounded beads inside me, gathering sensation as I moved.  I was existi
ng in a haze of euphoric stimulation that made me feel as though I was glowing from the inside out.  That these men would rove my body with their hungry eyes only compounded the effect.  I let them look.  I felt their gaze collecting on my skin.

But I was glad Alexander was holding my hand. 
I held onto that hand tightly, almost desperately.  It was
him
I wanted.  It was
his
attention I wanted to bask in.  And when his hand slipped from mine to shake their hands as they patted him on the back in a manly greeting, I disengaged lightly, almost swaying or dancing or somehow just
moving
in any subtle way I could to keep myself from simply going mad from the passion that was gathering in my depths.

“I’ll get the drinks,” I volunteered, glad for something to do to distract myself.
I walked down the hall to the kitchen, twirling, reveling in the swivel of my hips and the youth of my body. Each step heightened the luscious torture.  My senses were keenly attuned, hyper-aware of sounds and textures.  I entered Alexander’s grand gourmet kitchen.  I ran my hand along the marble countertop, appreciating the excessive opulence, the over-the-top gleaming stainless steel appliances that looked like they’d never once been used.  It was so far removed from the dingy kitchenette in Eva’s apartment, and even more removed from the dilapidated grunge of my faraway childhood home that I took a second just to marvel.  The
luxury
.  Could a person get used to it?  Did the feeling of decadent extravagance ever wear off?  I wondered if Alexander ever cooked.  I could picture him serving me up some romantic, lovingly-prepared meal.  But it was a fictional scenario I didn’t dwell on.  I had no idea what the future of our relationship – if this could even be called such a thing – held.  And at this moment, the only precise point in the future I could think about was the event of my very next immanent orgasm.

I found a tray and
went to the massive double-doored refrigerator.  As I walked, and moved, diligently going about my task, the beads rolled inside me, caressing me from the inside, pressing lightly against every sensitive trigger I possessed.  And when I reached into the fridge, bending at the waist to lean down, the feeling was so full and so rife with pleasure I moaned softly.  The men were in the other room so wouldn’t have heard me, a detail which both relieved me and, inexplicably, disappointed me.  The sensation the beads were delivering was maddening.  I was so aroused that a tiny trickle of moisture began to drip down the high skin of my upper thigh.  My pussy lips were almost painfully swollen, throbbing lightly.  My clit was aching with a sweet, pulsing burn.  I was so close to coming that my body felt like it was humming with the build-up.

I could touch myself now, I knew.  It would take only the lightest swivelling touch.  The orgasm would crash blissfully through me.  I wanted it so bad
ly I wriggled my hips to quell the tide, or maybe to spark it.  But I wanted Alexander’s touch.  Like he’d said.  Under the table.  Right there, in front of all those lusty men. 
All I’ll have to do is brush my fingers gently across your clit, and you’ll come all over my hand, right there at the table.  You won’t moan or cry out.  You’ll look into my eyes and I’ll see the delicious pleasure washing through you.  And I’ll know it’s all for me.   It’ll be that easy.

It
would
be that easy.  And I wanted it
now
.  I was so restlessly excited I could barely see straight.  My thoughts and focus were blurred by the rage of my need.  My sex felt like it was consuming me with its heat, all swollen and pulsing and barely concealed under my very-short skirt.

I put s
ix beers on the tray and walked back into the great room where the men were seated around the large oval table.  The room was softly lit by several table lamps, which gave off subdued circles of yellow light.  The table itself was lit by several tiny, artfully-placed spotlights that hung from the ceiling. Through the expansive glass window, the lights of the city were glimmering in the lively darkness of the night.

Alexander and his friends were holding
their cards, placing bets, talking and laughing.  Alexander’s hair was lit by one of the spotlights, giving him a golden halo.  These were big, handsome men, but Alexander was in every way superior.  Like a general or a quarterback.  Or, like an olive-skinned CEO.  He seemed to glow with an appeal that reached out to me, enveloping me.

I served
the beers, leaning over Alexander’s friends to place them, one by one, on the table.  I was aware that my breasts were very visible in my white fitted top.  I wore no bra and my nipples were beaded, poking at the thin fabric.  The neckline of my top was low and as I leaned forward, the line dipped lower, barely covering my nipples.  And the beads deep inside my body rolled again with my movement.  I held back a moan but I could not contain a breathy gasp.

The men were still talking but their
gaze on my body only stoked my arousal by another degree.  Oddly, I almost wanted to pretend to drop something, so I could lean over fully and expose the desperation I was feeling.  I wanted them to see how wet I was, how ready.  I needed some kind of relief. 
Any
kind of relief.

And Alexander’s eyes were dark.  As dark as I had ever seen them. 
Narrowed.  His mouth was twisted in a pouting sneer.  And as I drew closer to him, the flare intensified.  I was going to come.  The swell was rising.  I was
so close
.

As I leaned over Alexander to place the las
t beer on the table in front of him, I couldn’t help it.  His
mouth
.  So close to my straining, swollen breasts.  I wanted my aching nipple in his mouth, to be eased and stroked by the wet silk of his tongue.  I let my fingers trace a line through his hair and down his neck.  I didn’t care about the men.  I leaned closer, and closer still, offering myself to him.

To my intense delight, Alexander caught my nipple between his lips, biting me gently
through the fabric of my top with his teeth.  This time I couldn’t suppress the moan that rose in my throat.

The other men at the table made various noises
of approval, surprise and gruff encouragement.

I moaned again
as he sucked me through the thin veil of my shirt.  “Touch me,” I breathed.  “I need you.  I can’t wait.”

Alexander eased my top down to expose my breast and he kissed my nipple lig
htly as though to placate me.  Then he covered me and made a patting gesture on the chair next to him.  “Sit down, sweet.  I’ll teach you how to play.”

But his touch
was not enough.  I was too far gone.  I wanted his mouth on me again, more forcefully.  I wanted him to suckle me and touch me so I could finally find this elusive, infuriating peak that promised to be so high and so good I was absolutely frantic to reach it.  So frantic that I could comprehend nothing but the billowing, all-consuming need.  I truly had gone mad.

Watching his eyes, I pulled the top of my shirt down lower, to expose myself fully, easing the fabric down
to frame and plump my breasts.

“Fu
-u-ck,” one of the men said in a disbelieving, drawn-out breath.