CHAPTER SEVEN – THE BILLIONAIRE AND HIS SEXY SECRETARY #2
“Not yet.” I pull my hand away, savoring the way she whines, the shock of it.
I stand, undo my belt, and let my cock spring free. I’m hard as stone, the tip already leaking and slick. Her eyes go wide, and for the first time all day, she looks a little scared.
“Don’t worry,” I say, stroking myself, “I’ll go slow. But you’re going to take every inch today. Do you understand, Miss Vreeland?”
Of course, Kat’s seen my cock before. She’s even had it in her mouth but when she realizes that I’ll be claiming her pussy this afternoon, a small whimper escapes from her throat. Yet she nods, biting her lip again like she’s nervous. But she doesn’t look away.
I push the young girl back, until she’s lying on the desk, hair spilling over the edge. I position myself between her legs, line up, and press the head of my cock to her dripping pussy. She’s so tight, so wet, I can feel her pulsing against me.
“Ready?” I rasp, but I don’t wait for an answer. I push forward, just the tip, then a little more, then a little more. She’s tighter than any woman I’ve ever had, and it takes everything I have not to lose it on the spot.
She winces, a flicker of pain crossing her face.
“Oooh,” Kat moans. “Mmm.”
“You okay?” I rasp. “You’re very small, Miss Vreeland.”
She nods, but she’s breathing fast, her hands gripping the desk edge.
“Relax,” I murmur, brushing the hair from her forehead. “Let me in.”
I go slow, so fucking slow, but it’s still a stretch. She’s trembling, but she doesn’t ask me to stop, her pussy straining as my cock moves forward. The friction is unreal, she’s so small. Yet her body gives, inch by inch, but about halfway in I hit a wall—a physical barrier.
What the fuck?
My first thought is it’s just my size, that she’s clenching too tight or needs a minute to adjust, but then I see Kat’s face.
She’s gone pale, her eyes gone huge and glassy. She’s biting her lip so hard she might bleed, and her cheeks are flushed. Her big breasts heave, the nipples hard, but I know she’s hurting.
I freeze, the truth dawning on me in a cold rush. My brain short-circuits. I look down, at her pussy lips pulled as thin as rubber bands around the circumference of my hard shaft. It’s hurting her, and it’s not just my size.
No fucking way.
Katherine is a virgin.
I pull out slowly, gentle as the my shiny rod exits those plush folds. She exhales with relief, but my dick is still hard, still throbbing, still glazed with her fluids. I stagger backward, tripping over the goddamn visitor’s chair, heart pounding like I’ve been shot.
Kat blinks, confused. She starts to sit up, skirt falling over her thighs, blouse half-open, nipples begging to be sucked. She reaches for me, a question in her eyes, but I can’t—there’s no words, nothing I can say that will make sense of this.
I grab the box of tissues from the desk, toss it to her, and just bolt.
I’m out the door, up the stairs, and into the master suite, where I slam the door so hard the glass in the frame rattles.
I lock it. I put my back to the wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, suit pants still around my knees, my cock still half-hard and sticky with her nectar.
Jesus. Fuck.
I haven’t felt this much like a monster since the day my father left and never came back.
There’s a nausea in my gut, but also—god help me—a heat, an animal pride, something masculine, possessive, and absolute.
I close my eyes and try to breathe. I want to be angry at Sweet Lies, at Camille, at Kat for not saying anything, but the only thing that fills my head is the look on the beautiful woman’s face: the shock, the surrender, the way she never once said stop.
I sit there for an hour, maybe more, listening to the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the great room, and the muffled sounds of Kat moving around—bathroom, maybe, or kitchen, or just her feet on the stairs. Every time I hear her, my heart jumps, but I don’t move. I can’t face her. Not yet.
Eventually, my hard-on fades. I clean myself up, fix my clothes, and stare at the lines in the wood floor until the sun starts to go down.
I fucked up. Bad.
But the part that scares me most isn’t the proof of her innocence. It’s that I liked it.
I liked it more than anything I’ve ever had.
God help me.
That evening, the house is quieter than I’ve ever known it.
I stay in my office until the sky is purple and the windows show nothing but my own haunted reflection. I don’t write. I don’t drink. I just sit, hands locked behind my head, staring at the ceiling and listening to the echo of what I’ve done.
At some point, the smell of roasted chicken drifts through the door—Kat, making dinner like it’s any other night. I want to crawl out the window and run into the woods. Instead, I force myself up, wash my face, and walk into the kitchen like a man on death row.
She’s there, in jeans and a sweater, hair down and damp from a shower. She doesn’t look up when I come in, just keeps shredding lettuce into a bowl. Her hands are steady. Her narrow jaw is set. There’s a fresh Band-aid on her left thumb.
I stand there for a full minute before I say anything.
“Need help?”
She shakes her head, still not looking at me. “I’m good.”
The urge to apologize is so strong it burns my throat. Instead, I get plates from the cupboard, set the table, pour water for both of us. We move around each other in complete silence, as if we’ve rehearsed this choreography a hundred times.
When everything’s ready, we sit across from each other at the long pine table. She serves herself, then me, then starts eating, her lips plush as she chews. I copy her, but the food is dust in my mouth.
For a while, the only sounds are fork against plate, knife against chicken. Then:
“Pass the salt?” she says, voice small.
I hand it over. Our fingers brush. She flinches.
I’m drowning. I push away from the table, stand, pace the length of the room twice, then come back and sit down again.
“I didn’t know that you were a virgin,” I say. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
She doesn’t answer. She tears a chunk of bread in half, stares at the torn edge, and sets it on the rim of her plate.
I try again. “If you’d told me—”
“Would it have changed anything?” she asks. Kat looks up, finally, and her eyes are bright and blue and roiling with turmoil.
I want to say yes, of course, but I can’t. I shake my head.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, and goes back to eating.
A thousand words fight for space in my head, but none of them are good enough.
I take a breath. “Sweet Lies usually tells me if a woman’s a virgin because it’s an asset. Some men will pay extra for a virgin because a woman’s first time is prized. The opportunity to teach a young girl who’s never been with a man before can be a once in a lifetime experience.”
“Is that how you see it?” she asks.
I nod.
Her fork freezes, halfway to her mouth. “So do you think of me as a research subject still? Just a virginal one, that you need more preparation time for?”
“No.” I rub my face, desperate for her to understand. “Not like that. You’re not understanding what I’m saying. It’s a gift, Kat, and I wasn’t prepared to accept it this afternoon.”
She makes a noise, low in her throat, and sets her fork down, but doesn’t say anything, her beautiful features tense.
I stand up again, walk to the window, stare into the dark. My own reflection looks like a ghost, hollow and lost.
“I’m an asshole by nature,” I rasp, not turning around. “But I never wanted to be—” I cut myself off, try to find the right word. “Cruel.”
She lets that hang in the air, heavy as stone.
When I finally turn, she’s watching me, arms folded tight.
“So what’s going to happen?” she asks in a strangled voice. “Do you send me home now? Is my contract here up?”
I shake my head before meeting her eyes.
“No Kat,” I rasp. “What I’m saying is that I’m happy to pay you for your innocence. You deserve it, and you’re a young girl who doesn’t know what she’s giving up. One hundred thousand, for what happened today, and what’s going to happen later. Double the original agreement. For you, sweetheart.”
Her eyes grow wide as her big breasts heave with surprise.
“One hundred thousand?” she whispers, so low as to be almost inaudible.
“Yes,” I rasp. “Six figures. You’re worth it, Katherine. Never think of yourself as less than that.”
She’s silent for a moment, staring at her small hands.
“I was always going to let you do it, you know,” she says. “You don’t have to buy it.”
“I’m not buying it,” I say, but the words sound cheap even to my own ears. “I just—” I stop.
She stands, walks past me, and for a second, I think she’s going to touch my arm or my face. She doesn’t.
Instead, she says in a wobbly voice, “I’d appreciate a direct deposit,” and goes up the stairs without another word.
I stay there, in the cold kitchen, staring at the empty chairs and the untouched bread.
I should feel victorious because I got what I wanted. Kat accepted my money, and didn’t cry, didn’t run. She even made me dinner, and ate it with composure.
But I can feel that something’s off. The young girl is taking my money, and it’s a lot of money, but I also can tell that she doesn’t want it for some reason.
I sit at the table, alone, as the evening sinks into night. I crave the young woman’s innocence … but at what price?