thirteen -Brynn- #2
“Don’t bullshit me, you’re good at everything you do.” He leans slightly forward, smoke curling around his face. “Don’t keep me waiting, or I’ll add penalties to this equation.”
My throat suddenly turns dry as my hands find the hem of my T-shirt. I slowly begin to lift it up, even if my mind is still on jumping over the desk and wrapping my hands around his neck to strangle him.
“No... not like that. Dance while you do it.” An obvious satisfaction blooms in his voice.
“This isn’t a fucking strip joint,” I snap, looking around me as if to prove a point.
“You’re right, it isn’t. It would have been much cheaper there. Seeing as you’ve already cost me a few million.”
“A few million?” I ask, having no idea what he’s talking about. I don’t think he lost the money on Kharon because of me, so I really don’t understand what this is about.
“When you killed my priceless wine bottles,” he says with the bitterness in his voice that makes him seem even more off than before.
“I killed your bottles?” I repeat his strange choice of words.
Is he for real? Killed?
“Do you know how fucking much those bottles were worth? How priceless they were?” He pauses, his chest heaving, like he’s grieving after old friends.
“Chateau Margaux, 1787,” he says, his voice raising slightly.
“Valued at $225,000 before it was listed as priceless. Thomas Jefferson’s personal collection bearing his initials engraved on the glass.
” His eyes go to my hands that are still clenched on the hem of my T-shirt.
“A very poor exchange, considering I’m getting nothing in return.
” I swallow the knot in my throat, finally starting to get why he’s so pissed off.
I would be pissed off at me too. Okay, scratch that.
I’m already pissed off at me, because I hadn’t at least drunk them.
So that’s what gets me to move. Awkwardly at first, because my body is still stiff with resentment for what I have to do, and even more stiff with what I’m supposed to bring to the table.
There’s no way my dancing skills are worth millions.
I do my best to find a rhythm even though I’m pretty convinced that I look like an elephant on a tightrope, but at least it’s not just the grudge I’m holding onto; there’s also the matter of paying this debt.
I try my best not to say another word. I was never really good at keeping my mouth shut, but whenever I’m in over my head, I have a pretty decent survival instinct, so after a sway of my hips and grabbing the back of the chair like my life depended on it, I throw my t-shirt to the ground.
The sound of it falling is almost inaudible, yet somehow, I feel the fabric fall in the back of my mind, in the depths of my soul.
I take a glimpse at Ares, and while there is some trace of satisfaction on his face, it’s not really there yet.
“You would rather fight me for your life than do this, wouldn’t you?
” he smiles, but the curve of his lips doesn’t hold real amusement.
“Tough luck because I think you’re better at this than you would like to admit. ”
I bite the inner corner of my mouth to hold back from saying something that would only bring me more punishment. I just untie my hair and roll my head back slowly before running a hand over my breasts. I’ve cost the man a few million; might as well give him a show.
Somehow, I try to lie to myself that this has nothing to do with the throbbing sensation between my legs or the way my core jolts every time I look at him.
I make a gracious move, or at least as gracious as I can, and get down from the chair, making a full limping pirouette around it.
Then I untie my pants—they aren’t the most seductive thing—and pull them down my legs, wincing as they catch on the bandage covering my wound.
At this point, I think anything is seductive for Ares.
“Careful,” he says, humorless, and I can’t tell if he’s amused or he’s genuinely concerned. “Wouldn’t want to reopen that wound, would we?”
I get back on the chair in nothing but my underwear now, a little too aware of how exposed I am, realizing the music seems to have gotten louder, or maybe that’s just the blood rushing through my ears.
“Chateau Lafite, 1787,” he continues, like I’ve just concluded the first part of our business transaction.
“Also from Jefferson’s collection. Last valued at $156,450 before being purchased by a private collector.
Me.” His lips curl into a smile again that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Five more bottles to go.”
Okay, I’m in fucking trouble, and at this point, I deserve to be in fucking trouble. The problem is, I don’t even have five items of clothing left.
“But first, touch my mark on you,” he says, and his words carry a hunger that echoes in my mind like a damn speaker.
The cool air of the office raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, but I follow his command and raise my hand to the mark he burned into my skin, the symbol clearer than ever now that it’s fully healed, and its meaning as well. I am his. His to do whatever he wants with.
“Good, little curse,” he whispers in a way that just made a wet mess between my thighs.
I reach behind my back to unhook my bra, hating how my nipples have hardened in the cool air—or from something else I refuse to acknowledge. The fabric slips away, and I let it drop.
"Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, 1945," Ares says, his voice softer now.
"Just over $558,000. Only 600 bottles ever produced.
" He leans forward, his hazel eyes gleaming in the dim light.
"Do you know why these wines are so valuable, Brynn?
It's not just age or taste. It's scarcity.
Uniqueness." His gaze travels over my body, taking his time to admire every inch.
"The things we can never replace are the ones we value most."
Now I stand nearly naked before him, just a scrap of fabric between his gaze and my complete exposure. My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold. Shame and arousal battle within me, and I hate that the latter is winning.
The intensity of his gaze is too much right now, and I feel like I’m fucking melting in front of him, which makes me continue swaying my body against the chair as sensually as I can, following the music and doing my best to avoid eye contact.
I’m not usually shy, but being in the spotlight makes me feel more vulnerable than ever. The scars on my body seem more evident than ever, to the point I’m starting to think he’s looking directly at them.
My moves become more restrained, and I suddenly find myself trying to cover myself rather than doing what he asked and putting on a show for him.
Besides, I keep avoiding taking my panties off, because the look in his eyes tells me nothing good will follow. Maybe just something that will have me melting with pleasure, but definitely nothing good.
“Now touch yourself.” He smiles again, this time a lot wider, and a lot more convinced that I’m going to follow through.
The fuck I will.
“This is enough,” I mutter, trying to get up from the chair.
But I don’t make it to my feet before his voice fills the room. “Sit! Now!”
I might be brave, but I’m not a fool, so I’m back straddling the chair's back.
"Cheval Blanc, 1947," he continues. Though his voice has changed, grown huskier. "Perfect growing conditions, not replicated since. $304,375 at auction." He shifts in his seat, and I feel a sick thrill of power knowing I'm affecting him despite his controlled exterior.
Fuck, those last two were expensive.
That makes me not wait for him to tell me twice, and I reach into my panties, slowly touching the nerve endings that are already crying for him.
But of course, he isn’t satisfied just with this. “Push the fabric. I want to see you touch your tight cunt for me.”
I swallow the knot in my throat, and my attention goes directly to him as everything around me stops, and I’m trying to decide between rebellion and pleasure.
But there isn’t much to decide anyway, because with him, the pleasure numbs any other senses.
“Come on, little curse. Or do you want me to keep counting the bottles?”
I definitely don’t want to hear how many millions I broke during my fit. I know it’s ultimately his fault, but I could’ve at least thought about the price. I knew deep down they were expensive, still, I wasn’t expecting house-worth expensive.
With a final effort, I push the fabric aside, the cold in the room, hitting me like a slap across my face.
“So fucking amazing,” he mutters under his breath. That somehow makes me even wetter, and I have nothing else to do but move my fingers through the wetness of my pussy.
It’s not like when he’s touching me, but knowing his eyes are there, studying my every move, intensifies everything.
I move slowly. Too slow for his liking and maybe too slow for my own, but the way he takes another drag out of that cigar so casually, like he’s been waiting for this all along, makes me want to stop just to spite him.
Still, I don’t. I keep on going, dragging every nerve to its limit.
My own liquids coat my fingers as I watch his breath grow more intense.
Now he’s really getting the spectacle he wanted.
As I shamelessly touch myself, stroke after stroke, building a pleasure that comes not just from my fingers but also from the way I know he needs me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, running his tongue across his thick lips, and suddenly a flood of ideas fill my mind about what he could do with those.
It only makes me that much wetter, that much weaker, when it comes to him.
Like I’m giving him all the power, and he grows stronger.
So strong that his next command makes me realize I might not have any self-esteem left after this.
“Crawl to me.”