Serving the Billionaire (7 page)

The cool air in the room felt good on my overheated flesh. I glanced down at myself, trying to see what Mr. Sutton saw. My breasts were small but firm and round: nothing like the lush feminine curves of most of the dancers, but not terrible. Not unappealing. And Mr. Sutton clearly liked them. The bulge in his pants had grown bigger, and his lips parted as he stared at me.

He stood abruptly, and stood before me, so close that our bodies almost touched, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Gorgeous creature,” he murmured, and I watched, frozen, as he lifted one hand and set it on my shoulder.

“Mr. Sutton,” I said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Every cell in my body yearned for him.

He drew his hand down to cup my right breast, and moved his thumb to slide over my nipple. I let out an involuntary gasp at the way it felt. My skin tingled just from the light pressure of his fingers, and as he toyed with my nipple, I was almost overwhelmed by the urge to slide to my knees and beg him to fuck me. I couldn’t think of anything I had ever wanted more.

“Your pussy’s wet, isn’t it?” Mr. Sutton asked me.

His voice was so gentle that it took me a moment to absorb what he’d said, but then it hit home, and my cheeks flamed. I shook my head, not denying it, but unable to answer. He couldn’t possibly expect me to agree with him.

“Tell me,” he said, still gentle, but insistent.

“Yes,” I whispered, humiliated beyond measure, but his thumb kept moving, teasing me, and I wanted him. I didn’t ever want him to stop touching me.

“Good girl,” he said, and the approval in his voice nearly undid me.

He took his hand away, as suddenly as he’d moved it there in the first place. “The others will be here soon,” he said. “Will you pour some drinks, please?”

I didn’t understand how he could switch gears so quickly. It took me a few moments to redirect my brain from thinking about sex and hunger and his fingers and my pussy. “Yes,” I said, after too long of a pause.

“Thank you,” he said. “I need to speak with Germaine.”

And just like that, calm as anything, he headed for the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, I shoved my hand down my skirt, inside my tights and underwear, and stroked myself until I came, thighs quivering, still standing in the middle of the room. It only took about a minute. That’s how aroused I was just from being close to Mr. Sutton, from him touching me a little.

I wondered what would happen if he ever touched me with more intent. I would probably melt, or explode. I definitely wouldn’t survive it.

By the time Mr. Sutton returned, I had wiped my hand on a napkin and smoothed my hair into place, and positioned myself beside the fireplace. I hoped I looked calm and implacable. Unreadable. I didn’t want him to know how he affected me. I was afraid. I was scared of how intensely I responded to him, and how intensely he responded to me. I didn’t know what would happen. I felt like I was hurtling down a mountainside in a car with no brakes.

He didn’t touch me again for the rest of the night. Aside from the fact that I was topless, it was more or less exactly like the last time I’d served for him. His guests paid more attention to me, their eyes greedily taking in my body as I moved around the room, but none of them bothered me or even spoke to me much. They were occupied with the dancers, and when there were two fully naked women in the room, a girl without a shirt on didn’t draw much attention. I was more or less left to serve drinks in peace.

Mr. Sutton, unlike his guests, basically ignored the dancers. Instead, he tracked me around the room all night, following me with his eyes even while he spoke with the other guests. His laser focus on me was both flattering and terrifying. I still didn’t understand what he saw in me—why he had chosen me for such particular attention, when I wasn’t beautiful or cultured or fascinating. And that threw me off balance. If I knew what he wanted, I would be on solid ground; but his motivations were totally mysterious to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do or say or think, or feel.

At the end of the night, he handed me a fat envelope and said, “You did very well tonight.”

I didn’t want his approval to matter, but it did. “Thank you,” I said, blushing.

“I want you again on Friday,” he said. “Will you?”

I didn’t have to think. I said, “Yes.”

T
wo days later, on Friday, I went directly to room 4 when I arrived at the club. Mr. Sutton, as always, was intent on his phone, but set it aside as I came in the door and gave me his full attention.

“Regan, I want something very particular from you tonight,” he said. “If you aren’t willing, you can merely serve drinks, as before. But if you agree, I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars for the night’s work.”

I just stared at him. It was such a ridiculously large amount of money that his words didn’t mean anything to me. If he wanted to blow huge wads of cash on me, why not? Who was I to say no?

He ignored my lack of response. “I want you to... wear something.” He turned to the briefcase sitting beside him on the couch, and pulled out a small black package. He unwrapped it, and I saw that it was actually a lacy thong wrapped around a pink plastic oval.

“What is it?” I asked, mystified.

“It’s a vibrator,” he said. “It slips inside these panties, like so.” He showed me the flap of fabric inside the thong. “You can wear it.” He held up a slim black rectangle. “And there’s a remote control.”

I put one hand on the back of the chair beside me, to steady myself. “So you want me to...” I trailed off. I couldn’t bring myself to say it.

“Yes, I want you to,” he said, with a brief flash of a smile. “You’ll wear it while you serve, and you won’t ever know when I’m about to turn it on. You’ll have to be very careful not to spill any drinks.”

I was shaking slightly, and took a deep breath in an effort to calm my racing pulse. I had never imagined anything like this. All of his guests would be able to see me coming apart at the seams, and the dancers, and
him
. They would all look at me and
know
. I didn’t know how I felt about giving him that sort of power over me, to force pleasure on me with the flick of a switch.

That was a lie. I knew exactly how I felt about it.

“So you agree,” he said, accurately reading my silence as consent.

I nodded, not trusting my voice to stay steady.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again and looked at me, the intense heat in his gaze made me feel like I was already stripped naked before him. “Put it on,” he said.

There was no question of asking for privacy. He obviously wasn’t going to leave, and I didn’t want him to. I wanted him to stay there and watch me as I undressed. I wanted him to
long
for me the way I longed for him. I wanted to feel his desire heavy in the room like the tension before a thunderstorm.

All my life, I had thought of myself as a pretty boring person. I never had a teenage rebellion; I didn’t sneak out of the house or smoke pot or listen to music that made my parents frown. I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol until I turned twenty-one. I worked hard, paid my taxes, and recycled. I’d never done anything daring.

Being around Mr. Sutton made me feel bold.

I stepped out of my heels first, to make sure I didn’t do anything ungraceful like wobble or fall over. I had gotten much better at walking in heels, but I still didn’t feel completely confident. In my stocking feet, I stepped closer to Mr. Sutton. He looked up at me, hands resting on his splayed knees, and the heat in his gaze made my breath catch.

“What do you want me to wear?” I asked. He hadn’t told me if he wanted me topless again.

“Everything,” he said. “All of your clothes. You’ll look all buttoned up on the outside, but I’ll know the truth, won’t I?”

“Yes,” I said, a whispered scrap of a word. I reached around to unzip my skirt. It slid off my hips and puddled at my feet. I stepped out of it.

Mr. Sutton watched, saying nothing, as I bent over and peeled off my tights.

Wearing nothing but my blouse and underwear, I moved even closer to Mr. Sutton, standing between his spread knees. He lifted his hands to my hips, curling his palms around them, and used his thumbs to trace the red lines on my abdomen that my tights always cut into my skin.

“That looks painful,” he said.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I said. “It just looks ugly.”

“Nothing about you is ugly,” he said.

I didn’t know how to respond. I looked down at his hands against my skin, white against brown. He hooked his thumbs in the waistband of my underpants and peeled the silky material away from my hips. I inhaled sharply. He looked up at me, and our eyes met.

I felt the same electrical charge that I’d experienced the first night I met him, when he said
Stirred, not shaken
, and it was like an earthquake had shaken the ground beneath my feet. Whatever else happened, whatever words or actions passed between us, I would never forget the pure, uncomplicated desire that came over me when I looked at him.

It was easy, then, to let him draw my panties down my thighs, down my calves, down to my ankles, where I stepped out of them and left them lying on the carpet in a limp puddle. I had nothing to lose. And the way he looked at me, lust burning hot in his eyes, made it hard to feel embarrassed. My body was nothing special, but the look in his eyes made me forget that, somehow. I wanted him to look at me.

My underwear gone, he drew his hands back up my legs, from ankles to calves, marking teasing lines along the sensitive skin behind my legs, and up the backs of my thighs to my bare ass. His hands cupped the flesh of my ass and skimmed up over my hips, and down to slide his thumbs along my groin. My mouth was dry, and my heart raced. I had never wanted anyone as much as I wanted him.

“Such a good girl,” he said, breaking the tense silence, and leaned forward to kiss the curve of my hip.

As his lips touched my skin, I heard myself moan.

“Good,” he said, as if I’d answered a question, and drew away. My thighs quivered. I was wet between my legs, and hungry for him, but I didn’t know how to ask for what I wanted. I didn’t even have words for it. I just knew that I wanted him, and I would do anything he asked for.

He lifted the black thong from where it lay on the sofa and held it out to me. “Put it on,” he said again, and this time I took it from his hands.

I bent over and stepped into the thong and drew it up my legs, taking the place of the panties I’d discarded. Mr. Sutton sat and watched me, his hands on his thighs framing the heavy bulge of his erection. The sight of it intensified the white-hot longing in my belly. He could lie to me with his words and the looks he gave me, for all I knew; he could be lying to me all the time, and I would never know—but he couldn’t lie to me with his body.

I pulled the thong into place. The vibrator was a hard lump between my legs, and I reached down to adjust it, settling it between my labia. It nestled against my clit just right, a solid pressure, and I could imagine what it would feel like when he turned it on.

The thought made me shiver. I would be exposed, helpless, before all of his friends—shaking with pleasure, unable to control myself.

He could do anything to me, and I wouldn’t stop him.

I wouldn’t want to.

“Let’s test it, shall we?” he asked, watching me closely. “I wouldn’t want to have a defective model.”

“Okay,” I said, every thought driven from my brain.

“Sit down beside me,” he said, and I sat, mute, obedient. He slid one arm around my shoulders and drew me toward him, cradling me against the side of his body. I’d never been so close to him. He was warm and solid, a muscular heat all along my right side, and I went limp against him, letting him take my weight. He could hold me up for a while.

“Are you ready?” he asked, turning his head so that his mouth pressed against the top of my head, and his words were a warm gust against my hair.

I nodded. I wasn’t sure I would be able to speak.

He might have said something, but I didn’t hear him; he might have done something with the remote, but I didn’t hear that, either. I heard the blood rushing in my ears, and I felt the sudden, subtle vibration start between my thighs. It wasn’t much at first, just a pleasant humming, and I turned my face into him, resting my hot cheek against his chest.

“I think you need more,” he said, and I felt the humming increase, until it was more of a buzz. It felt good. It made my clit throb. I squirmed, trying to shift the vibrator slightly so that it would rest against me exactly right, exactly where I wanted it.

“That’s right,” he said, even though I hadn’t spoken. I was hot all over, buzzing like a bee, and I lifted one of my hands to fist in his shirt, crumpling the expensive fabric, but I didn’t care anymore. I wanted to feel him. I wanted to leave my mark on him. Some sort of proof that this had actually happened. Was happening.

I couldn’t breathe. I opened my mouth to suck in a lungful of air.

“That’s right,” he said again, and I shuddered against him, overwhelmed.

And then it stopped. I opened my eyes and turned my head upward to look at him. He gazed back at me, expressionless. The throb between my legs lingered even in the absence of any vibrations. I wanted to say something, but couldn’t think of the words.

He spoke for me. “You can take it,” he said. “You’ll pour my whiskey and come for me while I watch you from across the room.”

“Yes,” I said, and I knew it was true. It felt too good, and I’d lost all of my shame. Or not all of it, but most of it. A large part of it, at least. Enough that I knew I would be happy to stand by the fireplace all night and cling to the mantle and quiver while he touched me without touching me at all.

He bent and kissed my forehead, oddly formal, like he was giving me a benediction. And then he stood and said, “We’ll begin soon.”

“Yes,” I said, looking at his face instead of at the outline of his cock in his trousers. I would be good.

He left the room. Alone, I stood up and gathered my discarded tights and pulled them back on, followed by my skirt and heels. I tucked my blouse into my skirt and smoothed out the wrinkles that had developed. I went over to a mirror hanging on the well to make sure I looked okay. My face stared back at me, wide-eyed, cheeks flushed. Not good. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing pulse. When I opened my eyes again, I was expressionless, face smooth as a doll’s. Good.