The Billionaire's Embrace (The Silver Cross Club) (3 page)

“Oh, sweetheart,” Carter said, voice low, and moved one hand to caress my cheek, a brief touch to my cheekbone. “I think you’re ready.”

I looked up at him, neck arched backward, throat bared.

He moved his hands to my hair, and began pulling out the bobby pins that were holding together the messy French twist I’d spent half an hour constructing with the aid of a video tutorial. He placed each pin on the side table with a small click. When he had gotten most of them, he ran his hands through my hair, searching for any strays, combing out my hair with his fingers.

Finished with that, he said, “I want you to get up and take off your underpants. Then I want you to walk into the bedroom and sit on the end of the bed.”

“My shoes,” I said.

His eyes looked very dark in the dim lamplight. “Leave them on.”

I stood, and shimmied my panties down my hips. They landed on the rug, and I stepped out of them, lifting one foot at a time, careful not to overbalance. I had gotten much better at walking in heels, but wine and arousal were combining to make me unsteady on my feet.

Carter watched me, hands curled around the back of the sofa. He was gripping so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

I shook my hair back over my shoulder. I spent most of my life feeling small and powerless, insignificant, a tiny cog turning and turning in the big wheel of the city; but the way that Carter looked at me made me feel like my life, finally, meant something to someone other than me.

It was an expansive feeling. It swelled inside me until I thought I might burst.

Fully naked except for my shoes, I walked around the sofa, brushed past Carter, and headed for the bedroom.

The bedroom was dark aside from the faint light coming in through the ceiling-to-floor windows along one wall. But the bed was covered in white linens, and it seemed to glow in the darkness, enough so that I was able to walk to it without fumbling. I found the end and sat, shoes planted on the floor, the sheets soft beneath me.

From the doorway, Carter said, “You could have turned on the light.”

I didn’t respond. I didn’t think he really wanted me to.

He hit a switch on the wall, and a small lamp beside the bed turned on, casting a warm circle of light.

I looked at Carter, my body aching, waiting for him to come to me.

He crossed the room, feet soundless on the plush carpet. “Lie down,” he said.

That sounded promising. I shifted backward a few inches and lay back on the bed. The comforter was so fluffy that it felt like lying in a cloud. I kept my head raised so that I could see him. I wanted to watch what he did next.

Carter set his hands on my knees and drew them upward, along my inner thighs, but stopped just short of where I really wanted him to. “You know how to be good for me, don’t you?”

My face went hot. “Yes,” I said.

“Tell me,” he said.

How could I say it? How could I
not
? “I need to stay still, and not say anything,” I said.

“Very good,” he said, and sunk to his knees on the carpet.

I held my breath. I was so wet, and I wasn’t sure what he was going to do, but I thought that maybe—I hoped—

He moved his hands to my thighs again, stroking the crease of my hip and then gently spreading my legs apart, opening me to him.

I let my head fall back against the mattress and closed my eyes. My hands drew into fists, and I tucked them beneath my hips. I would be good. I wouldn’t move at all.

Carter hooked his hands behind my knees and pushed them outward and up, toward my shoulders, and I tried not to think about how exposed I was. He could see everything. I tried not to be embarrassed—he had already seen me naked, and clearly liked it well enough that he wanted to do it again—but my old habits of shyness and concealment were hard to shake. I hoped he wouldn’t say anything.

And he didn’t. Maybe he could read my body language, or maybe he just didn’t like talking too much during sex. I felt his hair brushing against my inner thigh, and then the touch of his lips, soft, dry, in the crease of my right leg, where I had a small, hidden birthmark.

I let out a quiet gasp and arched my back, desire filling me like a river overflowing its banks. Was he going to—

“Hold your legs,” he said, moving his hands away from my knees, and I obeyed instantly, curling my hands around the back of my thighs, holding myself open.

The next thing I felt was his fingers stroking at my wet slit.

I bit my lip to keep from crying out. His touch was light, teasing, and he ran his thumb along my folds a few times before he moved his hand to hook around my leg and tug me closer to him, closer toward the edge of the bed.

“Don’t move,” he said, and I froze, every muscle clenched with anticipation, until I felt his mouth against me, and the tension turned into a sudden liquid warmth as I practically melted into the bed. I was like Icarus, too close to the sun.

I had never felt anything like it—never imagined anything like his tongue sliding against me, slick and languid one moment and fluttering the next. I gripped my thighs tightly, afraid I would let go without meaning to. The world narrowed to a single, molten point: Carter’s mouth between my legs, teaching me an entirely new vocabulary of pleasure.

He went slowly at first, licking me in long strokes, making me tender and swollen. I squirmed against him, wanting more, but also already so overwhelmed that I wasn’t sure I would survive it. Had anyone ever died from pleasure? Maybe I would be the first.

It wouldn’t be a bad way to go.

As I grew hotter and more eager, opening to him, I noticed that my hips started rocking against him in small involuntary pulses. He took it as an invitation, and intensified his exploration, sucking and even using his teeth, gently, but enough to make me moan. I felt that familiar pressure building, and it grew more urgent the more he worked me over with his mouth, that feeling like the tickle right before a sneeze.

“Carter,” I said, urgently, wanting him to stop so I could have a moment to catch my breath, but also not wanting him to stop at all, wanting him to keep going until I crested and fell, joyous, over the edge.

He must have heard the frantic note in my voice, because he pulled away and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ve had enough.”

“No,” I said, hiking my knees higher, wishing I hadn’t said anything. I spread my legs hopefully, wanting him to go back to what he had been doing.

He chuckled and said, “Turn over.”

It took me longer than it should have. My legs, when I released them, were stiff and uncooperative, and I had to lie still for a moment before I could muster the strength to roll over. My legs dangled awkwardly onto the floor, and I crawled forward onto the bed, drawing my knees beneath me.

Carter stood and sat beside me, placing one hand on my back and sliding it down over the curve of my ass. “I didn’t give you permission to speak.”

I flushed. The skin of my face felt too tight. He was right—I had told him I would be good, that I wouldn’t say anything. And then I said his name, and ruined it. “I’m sorry,” I said. Was that the right thing to say? Did he want me to apologize?

He shook his head, looking regretful. “That isn’t good enough, Regan. It’s better to ask permission than forgiveness. If you aren’t able to be good for me...”

I sat up instantly, horrified. “I can be good!” I said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to, I was just so—but I can be good, I’ll do whatever you say, just please—”

“Hush,” he said. “I’m not angry. It’s my fault; I haven’t trained you well enough.” He brushed my hair out of my face. “Do you want to show me that you can be good?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding frantically. I would have done just about anything to redeem myself. “I do, please, let me show you—”

“Hush,” he said again. “Lie down across my lap.”

I hesitated. I could only imagine one reason he would ask me to do that, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it. The position alone would be humiliating, like I was a naughty child caught with one hand in the cookie jar. But he looked so calm and matter-of-fact about it that I was able to ignore my reservations. Carter had been good to me so far. He had listened to me when I used my safeword. If I didn’t like it, he would let met stop. What was the harm in giving it a try?

Slowly, awkwardly, I went onto all fours and arranged myself over his lap.

It was difficult to balance myself, with him sitting on the edge of the bed, and one of my elbows and knees threatening to slide off the mattress. But I did the best that I could, and he curled his left hand around my waist, helping to hold me in position. I turned my face to one side, resting against the bed, and gave myself over to it: the shame, the arousal, the feeling of his wool trousers against my bare belly, the feeling of his erection pressed against my abdomen. He wasn’t just punishing me; he
wanted
this. And that made me want it, too.

He stroked my ass with his free hand, small circles, and then, without warning, lifted his hand and brought it down with a resounding
smack
.

I yelped. It escaped from me with that first stroke, and I immediately bit my tongue to hold in any further noises. I had to be quiet. I had to be good. I would be so good that he would keep me in his bed forever.

The blows reined down in quick succession. He hit me with his open palm, fingers spread, making a loud sound every time and sending waves of sparkling pain through my body. My parents had beaten me when I was a child, but this felt nothing like those early spankings. Carter wasn’t trying to hurt me; he was trying to make me feel the power he had over me, and the pleasure and pain he could give me.

I felt alive.

It did hurt. That wasn’t the goal; it was a side effect, but my nerve endings didn’t care. My brain
did
care, though, and it told me that the pain I was feeling wasn’t pain at all—it was ecstasy, in a slightly different form.

The skin of my ass felt hot, like a bad sunburn. My skin tingled with each blow, and every time Carter’s palm came down, I felt it throughout my entire body: my scalp prickled, my toes curled, my pussy throbbed, and I bit down on my lower lip until I tasted blood. I wouldn’t make a noise. I would be good.

It stopped, after some indeterminate amount of time. Carter smoothed his hand over my ass, comforting, and then down between my legs. He pushed his thumb inside of me and then smeared the wetness over my swollen clit, stroking me in languid circles. I breathed through my nose, desperate, trying to hold on.

“You’re ready,” he said. He slid one hand beneath my thighs and the other beneath my shoulders, and lifted me from his lap. He carried me around the side of the bed and lay me on the mattress. I clung to him, limp and almost beyond language, but he gently disentangled my hands from his shirt and stepped back to take off his clothes.

I watched him, curled where I was on the bed, as he unbuttoned his shirt and revealed his muscular chest, as he unzipped his trousers and revealed the length of his erection. He really wasn’t wearing underwear. I wanted to feel him on top of me, pressing me down into the bed. I wanted to feel him inside of me. My skin prickled all over, and I thought I would fall to pieces the instant he touched me.

He folded his clothes and put them on a nearby chair, slowly, deliberately, and opened a drawer in the bedside table. I watched him open a condom and roll it onto his thick cock. I watched him climb onto the bed and kneel above me, the very picture of masculine glory, and I reached for him with my limp arms, wanting.

“You showed me,” he murmured, leaning down. “You were very good.” He kissed me then, deep and passionate, and I tasted myself on his tongue.

I lifted my arms and wrapped them around his shoulders, and we were still kissing when he pushed inside me.

I couldn’t last long, not after what he’d put me through. I felt my orgasm building as soon as he rolled his hips against me, and as he moved faster, I dug my fingers into the dense muscles of his back and felt my mouth opening in a soundless moan. His cock dragged out of me and I was on fire, and he pushed back in and I was hurtling through space. I didn’t control my body anymore. I was completely at his mercy, and he was going to make me come like this was our last night on earth.

“That’s right,” I heard him saying, from a great distance, “you’re almost there, aren’t you? Be a good girl and come for me,” and I didn’t, not right then, but a few strokes later, my tense muscles all released at once, in a sweeping cataclysm that shook me down to my very bones.

When it ended, I relaxed against the mattress, too exhausted to move. Carter was smiling down at me, a look in his eyes that I couldn’t identify and was afraid to, and he rolled his hips against me a few more times, almost
too
pleasurable in the aftermath of my orgasm, and then his face tightened and he shook apart in my arms.

He rolled off me, and for several minutes we lay together in silence, breathing, sharing space, our hands tangled together between our sweating bodies.

“I could use a shower,” Carter said at last, and I laughed and said, “I could too.”

His bathroom was enormous. I had never seen anything like it. His walk-in shower had a skylight, dark now, and two big shower heads that poured down on us like rain. We scrubbed each other, laughing about nothing, and dried off with his plush white towels.

We went back into the bedroom, and he gave me a bathrobe to wear, and a comb. I sat at his dressing table and combed out my hair. The clock on the wall told me it was only 11—much too early for bed. I usually didn’t fall asleep until around 4. I wondered if Carter would expect me to leave, or expect me to spend the night. He probably had to work in the morning.

Before I could decide if I should say something about it, he solved the problem for me. He came over to me, dressed in a pair of low-slung black pants and nothing else, and took the comb from my hand. He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek. “If you stay here tonight, we can have fresh bagels in the morning, and I’ll have Henry take you back to your apartment.”