Chapter 3 #2
I distract myself with the high-tech panel on the side of the hot tub. I press some buttons, and the jets roar to life.
Which gives me an idea. What if I just sidle up to one of these gushing jets and open my legs? I just need the right angle...
But when I try it, the pressure leaves me gasping. It’s like being fucked by a waterfall. Too much. My clit can’t stand the deluge.
I turn back around, and the jet pummels my backside, which gives me an idea. If I just rise up and bend over so the jet stream hits between my butt cheeks… Hmmm, that’s nice. Intense but nice.
My orgasm is building when the music blasting through the house cuts off. Piers must have found the electronics cabinet. He’ll be stalking around the house, growling under his breath. He’s so sexy when he’s ready to go to war.
No, don’t think of him! Definitely don’t think about Fantasy No. Sixty Nine, where he’s pulling my hair, whispering, Bad, bad girl—
All the jets in the hot tub die. “Dammit!” I scramble to push the button again but freeze when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
I hope I’ve imagined it, but no, it’s the Dread Lord, here to spoil my fun. He would show up just as I figured out how to get the fancy hot tub to stimulate my butthole.
I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind.
But when he walks in, he looks like he hasn’t slept in a year.
He’s sexy as ever, but I spot the signs of dishevelment. His shirt has a few wrinkles. The shadows under his eyes are deeper, darker. His hair is tousled like he’s run his hand through it more than once. In all my years of observing him, that’s something he’s never done.
Seeing these signs of humanity softens me. It’s like the time I found an old photo of him as a boy, in a little holiday suit complete with plaid vest and bowtie. He looked adorable, but there was a sadness in his golden eyes. He looked a little lost.
He had that same lost expression after Marty’s funeral.
I know what it’s like to lose someone who’s your whole world. It changes you.
It changed Piers. But not enough.
Now, though, he looks terrible. He’s missing a cufflink. For anyone else, that’s not a big deal, but for the owner of a multinational conglomerate that includes several luxury brands and fashion houses? He’s on the brink of devastation.
Is it the dairy? There was no way I could’ve made him take a lactose pill before he drank my drink, but I still feel guilty. Responsible.
No, don’t feel sorry for him. Harden your heart.
Dear Santa,
Make me as black-hearted as him!
He prowls toward me, a pout on his perfect lips. He still looks hot, but maybe that’s just because my butthole is still tingling.
“That’s a two-hundred-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch,” he says.
“I know,” I hiccup. “Your favorite. I’ve always wanted to taste it.”
“You have tasted it.” His eyes glow. “Remember?”
Oh no, he didn’t. He didn’t just bring up that night. We never talk about that night.
I’m saved when he changes the subject. “Have you eaten?”
“Does the Baileys count as breakfast?”
“No.”
“Then nope.”
“Put the bottle down,” he orders, and my breathing grows heavy as my pussy throbs. I love it when he gets stern.
“Make me.”
His nostrils flare as he inhales. I’ve always found his nostril flares to be incredibly sexy.
“Give it to me.” He holds out a hand.
I set the bottle to my lips. “You want it, come take it.”
Another nostril flare. I squeeze my thighs together.
I see the moment he makes his decision. He looks stone-faced, almost resigned. But then a mischievous light enters his eyes.
Oh no. I only see that look of victory when he’s decimated his enemies. Bankrupted a rival.
He starts undoing the buttons of his shirt.
“What are you doing?”
He removes his remaining cufflink and strips off his button-down shirt. He’s wearing an undershirt, but the thin cotton does nothing to disguise the taut muscles underneath. His arms are so defined, and he has corded veins.
Corded veins!
“I’m doing as you instructed.” He toes off his left brogue, then the other. “I’m making you.” He strips off his socks before his hands go to his belt.
“Wait,” I cry. I’m out of breath, and I have this feeling that if he continues stripping, something dreadful will happen, but the rest of my body is celebrating. This is even better than Fantasy No. Sixty Nine!
He holds my gaze the whole time he takes off his pants. “You know, you’re right.”
I blink at him. He’s standing in front of me in an undershirt and boxer briefs that show off his muscular limbs. Dark hair dusts his thighs.
I’ve waited years for him to admit I’m right, but now that it’s here, I can’t focus on enjoying it. I can’t focus on anything but the bunched muscles of his shoulders or the sculpted quads. He looks so slim underneath his suits!
Santa, save me.
I lick my lips. “What was I right about?” I can barely get the words out. He’s looking at me like he’s a bull and I’m a red flag.
“If I want something, I take it.”
I don’t think he’s talking about the whiskey. My pussy pulses, and I can’t stop my whimper. I want to be taken. I want to be taken so bad!
“You’re going to start acting sensible,” he says. “No more drinking, your cheeks are flushed. And you need to eat something.”
My whole body is flushed, but not just because of the hot tub.
He walks towards me, still lecturing. I need to drink more water, blah blah blah. “You’ve had your fun. You’re going to take a little nap and wake up fresh for the night’s work. You’re going to drop this nonsense about quitting. I’m willing to overlook your impertinence—”
“Excuse me?” I can’t believe him. The arrogance of this man! “I’m quitting, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” I lift the bottle and start chugging.
It doesn’t work; I can’t get much down before I cough and sputter. I’m pretty bad at being a bad girl, but it doesn’t matter. I just need practice.
If it’s possible, his glare turns even more frigid. I shiver even though I’m in water heated to over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit.
“Enough,” he snaps. “Put the bottle down.”
This is another power play. He doesn’t want the whiskey; he just can’t stand to let me enjoy myself. He wants to ruin my fun.
He doesn’t get to do that anymore.
I stand straight up. Water streams off of me as I point the mouth of the bottle at myself. “You’re not the boss of me.”
Then I remember… I’m naked.