11. Dominic
11
Dominic
I check my watch for the fifth time in as many minutes. 6:55 PM. Tomorrow may bring one of the most important investor meetings for Serenity Shores, but right now all I can think about is the clause and its imminent fulfillment.
Today has been a waste. I couldn’t focus on anything at the office, my mind constantly drifting to tonight. To her. To what’s about to happen.
I’ve positioned myself in my bedroom, sitting on the edge of my California king with its custom mattress and Egyptian cotton sheets. The setting feels all wrong for what’s essentially a business transaction, but I’m not about to suggest my home office instead. That would be worse somehow. More clinical.
More fucked up.
Seven o’clock arrives. No knock on my door.
7:01. Nothing.
7:05. Still nothing.
Is she backing out? The thought sends a spike of irritation through me. We have a deal. A legally binding agreement. Well, most of it is legally binding. The clause about her sucking my dick wouldn’t hold up in court, but she doesn’t need to know that.
By 7:10, my patience evaporates. I stand, adjust my casual attire... I changed into dark jeans and a simple gray t-shirt as soon as I got home. And I stride to her guest suite on the opposite side of the penthouse.
The door is closed, just like it was when I arrived earlier. So I know she’s fucking here and not still at work.
I hesitate only a moment before knocking sharply three times.
Footsteps approach from the other side. The door opens, and there she stands, wearing silk pajama pants and a matching top in a soft shade of blue. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, face freshly washed and free of makeup. She looks softer, younger somehow, than the sharp-edged woman who negotiated the advance payment from me.
“You’re late,” I say, keeping my voice neutral despite the heat already building in my blood.
“I wasn’t aware I was expected to come to you,” she replies coolly. “The clause doesn’t specify location.”
Fucking hell. Of course she memorized the exact wording. I should have expected nothing less from Christopher’s meticulous assistant.
“I specifically told you yesterday to knock on my bedroom door at seven o’clock,” I begin, then realize she’s just attempting some sort of power play on me. Trying to throw me off balance.
Well, it’s working.
“Fine,” I say, maintaining eye contact. “As per our agreement, today is Day Two.”
“I’m aware of the calendar.” She steps back, opening the door wider. “Come in if you’re going to.”
The invitation surprises me. I expected to escort her back to my room, maintaining control of the situation. Instead, she’s claiming her territory.
I consider hauling her into my arms and forcefully carrying her to my bedroom, and ordinarily I would, but somehow, that doesn’t seem appropriate. I’m starting to feel like... like maybe this is a bad idea. I’m starting to wonder if she wants this...
She signed the damn contract. She could’ve taken the clause out, but she kept it in. Of course she wants this.
I enter, scanning the space automatically. She’s done nothing to personalize it, save for her laptop on the desk and a small stack of books on the nightstand. Interesting choices... business biographies and what looks like a thriller novel on top. Meanwhile, her suitcase sits by the bed, mostly still packed.
She turns, arms crossed over her chest. “Let’s get this over with.”
My eyebrows rise. “In a rush?”
“I have work to review before tomorrow. Christopher sent over the quarterly projections for Blackwell Innovations.”
The fact that she’s thinking about work right now stings my ego in a way I hadn’t anticipated. “I’m sure he can wait.”
“Unlike some people, I take my professional responsibilities seriously at all times,” she says pointedly.
I step closer, using my height advantage. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. I’m simply prioritizing my time.” She holds my gaze, unflinching. “The clause requires your physical release. It doesn’t specify how long the process should take. I’m guessing that we’ll be done in around five minutes.”
Jesus. She makes it sound like a dental procedure. I knew this would be transactional, but her approach is colder than I expected. It should turn me off.
It doesn’t.
“Fine,” I say, finding myself surprisingly aroused by her efficiency. “How do you want to do this?”
A flicker of surprise crosses her face. “I would think that’s your decision. You’re the one who insisted on including this ridiculous requirement.”
I move to sit on the edge of her bed. “You agreed to it. For quite a premium, if I recall.”
“Yes. One hundred thousand per occurrence.” Her voice is all business. “Which means I’m essentially the highest-paid sex worker in Manhattan tonight.”
The bluntness of her statement hits me in the chest. “That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?” She arches an eyebrow. “You’re paying me for sexual services.”
“I’m paying you to maintain our marriage agreement. This is just a component of that.”
“Semantics.” She shrugs, then takes a breath. “Do you prefer standing or sitting?”
The clinical question catches me off guard. “What?”
“For the blow job.”
I swallow. “Well, I’m sitting already...”
“As you wish.”
My cock hardens further at her submissiveness. I spread my legs slightly, watching her reaction. But I sense nothing from her.
She approaches and kneels between my legs, her practiced movements suggesting this isn’t her first time in this position. The thought sends an unexpected surge of jealousy through me.
Without preamble, she reaches for my belt, unfastening it with quick, efficient movements. I watch her face. She’s focused, almost bored, like she’s handling a routine task. My zipper comes down next, and she looks up, meeting my eyes briefly.
“I’ll need some help with your pants,” she explains.
I lift my hips and pull my jeans and boxer briefs down to mid-thigh, exposing my cock. It springs free, already fully hard, a drop of precum glistening at the tip.
I catch a fleeting expression crossing her face, surprise, perhaps appreciation, before her features settle back into neutral professionalism.
“You’re not what I expected,” she murmurs, almost to herself.
“Meaning?”
“Nothing important.” She wraps her hand around the base of my shaft, her grip firm but not tight.
I inhale sharply at the contact. Her hand is soft, warm, smaller than mine but still capable of handling my size. She strokes once, twice, assessing.
“Tell me if you have specific preferences,” she says, all business.
“Just get on with it,” I growl, irritated by her detachment yet impossibly turned on.
She nods once, then lowers her head, maintaining eye contact until the last moment when her lips part and take the head of my cock into her mouth. The wet heat sends a jolt of pleasure through me. My hands fist in the bedding to keep from grabbing her hair. It’s all I can do to prevent myself from thrusting my hips repeatedly and fucking the shit out of her face.
Her technique is flawless. She uses her hand in tandem with her mouth, creating a perfect rhythm. Her tongue swirls around the sensitive spot just beneath the head, then flattens to take me deeper. Not all the way... I’m far too large for that... but she compensates with her hand, twisting slightly on the upstroke.
“Fuck,” I mutter, unable to hold back the word. “Fuck!”
She doesn’t acknowledge it, simply continues her methodical movements. There’s no teasing, no playfulness. Just steady, relentless stimulation designed to bring me to climax as efficiently as possible.
I should be grateful. Most men would kill for head this skillful. But something’s missing. The connection. The passion. The feeling that she wants this as much as I do.
Which is ridiculous because neither of us should want this.
It’s just a clause.
A transaction.
So why does her detachment bother me?
I’m thinking too much. I close my eyes, focusing on the physical sensation. Focusing on keeping my hips utterly relaxed. Because I know if I start thrusting, I won’t be able to stop.
Her mouth is exquisite, her rhythm perfect. I feel pre-cum leak from my tip, and she adjusts, using it to slicken her movements further.
“That’s good,” I say, my voice rougher than intended.
She doesn’t respond, doesn’t change her pace. Just continues working my cock with single-minded focus.
I open my eyes to watch her, and the sight nearly finishes me... her lips stretched around my girth, her cheeks hollowed as she sucks, her eyes downcast in submissive concentration.
And then my hips thrust up involuntarily. She places a firm hand on my thigh, trying to control my movements, but it’s too late. I rip past her boundaries, wrap my fingers tightly in her hair, and start fucking that sexy mouth of hers.
But somehow I manage to stop myself. I lay back, forcing myself to completely relax. She pauses a moment, pulling away, gasping, catching her breath, then gives me a dirty look before wrapping her lips around my girth yet again.
For some reason that look almost makes me cum right there.
As she works me, I find myself getting close. The pressure builds at the base of my spine, my balls tightening. Her rhythm remains steady, relentless.
“I’m going to cum,” I warn her, offering her the chance to finish with her hand.
She pauses only long enough to say, “That’s the point,” before resuming her efforts with increased intensity.
I find the fact that she doesn’t pull away so fucking hot that I cum right there.
The orgasm hits me harder than expected, crashing through my body in powerful waves. I groan, fighting to keep my hands from grabbing her head as I pulse into her mouth. She doesn’t pull away, swallowing everything I give her without hesitation.
Only when I’m completely spent does she finally release me, sitting back on her heels and wiping her mouth delicately with the back of her hand.
“Obligation fulfilled,” she says simply, rising to her feet in one graceful motion.
I stare at her, caught between satisfaction and confusion. My body feels relaxed, tension drained away, but something uncomfortable lingers in my chest. My cock is still throbbing between my legs, hungry for more.
Hungry for her .
“That’s it?” I ask before I can stop myself.
She raises an eyebrow. “The clause requires your physical release. You received it. What more were you expecting?”
She glances at my fully erect, pulsing cock, wanting her, needing her, and her eyes momentarily widen in surprise. But then she masks the expression and looks away.
I pull up my boxers and jeans, fastening them while I search for an answer that doesn’t make me sound like an asshole. I come up empty.
Meanwhile my cock is still pulsing painfully in my now too-tight pants.
“Nothing. That was... thorough.”
“I believe in meeting my contractual obligations completely,” she says, stepping toward the door in clear dismissal. “Day Fourteen is twelve days from now. I’ll mark my calendar.”
The clinical reminder grates against my nerves. “You know, most women would’ve shown at least some emotion during that experience.”
A flash of anger crosses her face, the first real emotion I’ve seen tonight. “Most women aren’t being paid to perform sexual acts as part of a business arrangement. Did you want me to fake enthusiasm too? Would that have made it better for you?”
Her words hit with unexpected force. She’s right, of course. This was my idea. My clause. My terms. I have no right to expect anything beyond exactly what she provided.
“No,” I say finally. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Good. Then if there’s nothing else, I really do have those projections to review.”
I move toward the door, pausing with my hand on the knob.
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly, not sure what the proper etiquette is for this fucked-up situation.
“You’re welcome,” she replies, her voice softening slightly. “Good night, Dominic.”
“Good night, Tatiana.”
I step into the hallway, hearing the door close firmly behind me. Leaning against the wall, I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. Now that I’m finally out of the room, my cock is finally starting to become flaccid.
What the fuck was that? The physical release was perfect. Better than perfect. Exactly what I wanted. Worth every penny.
So why do I feel so unsatisfied? So... empty?
I push off from the wall and head toward my own suite, already reconsidering the wisdom of including this clause. Twelve days until the next fulfillment. Twelve days to figure out why her detachment bothers me so much when detachment is exactly what I’ve built my entire life around.
Twelve days to pretend this arrangement isn’t getting under my skin in ways I never anticipated.