Page 7 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

I guess I would have balked if he’d tried beautiful. I wasn’t unappealing but compared to Caspian Hart I was entirely fucking ordinary. But bewitching, it turned out, I could get behind, since it was as much about my effect on him as it was about me. I liked the idea a lot: this power had been given me, to please him.

He caressing fingers returned to my arse, slipping into the soft valley between my cheeks and reminding me abruptly exactly how my current position presented me: no longer with peach-like discretion, but spread wide and wanton for his looking and his touching.

I was glad my face was tucked away because I was bright red. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t had people get up close and personal with my bum before but I was starting to discover that context really made a difference. The very personal activities you indulged in in the dark were one thing. Being laid out not-very-virgin-sacrifice style in broad daylight was pretty explicitly another. And then there was the fact Caspian was still clothed and I was about as bare as it was possible to be.

But, the truth was, I loved it. Especially because, amid the roughness of denim beneath my thighs, I could feel how gloriously hard he was. I’d been jerking off to fantasies vaguely reminiscent of this for as long as I could remember but I hadn’t accounted for the charge that came from knowing he was just as into this as I was. That it wasn’t just something he did, or something I gave, it was something we shared.

Which didn’t mean I wasn’t also nervous about it. And getting more so as he…uh…got acquainted with the territory, his hand mapping the curve from the tops of my thighs to the (occasionally rather admired) dimples at the base of my spine.

“Um,” I squeaked. “You have done this before, right?”

“Yes.” He stopped stroking me. His palm just resting there, possessive and protective and vaguely threatening, all at the same time. “Have you?”

Occasionally my lovers had taken a swipe at my arse while nailing it, but as much as I’d enjoyed that sort of play, it hadn’t remotely prepared me for this. “Not technically, no. But”—I pulled in an unsteady breath, suddenly terrified he was going to change his mind, and I’d have stuck my posterior in his face for nothing—“don’t let it stop you.”

“Believe me, the only thing that can stop me is you. Tell me what you want.”

Ahhhhh.

I wished yet again that I could see his face but then I was also glad I couldn’t because it reminded me that the last time I’d felt physically closest to him, when the things I’d done for his pleasure had seemed most intimate, he’d only been a voice on the phone.

And that was how I found the courage to tell him.

Well, the courage to burrow into the sofa and then tell him: “I want you to spank me.”

He made a soft, lust-rough noise, but his voice was amazingly steady: “Show me how much you want it. Ask me.”

“Oh God.” I twitched and dripped and nearly combusted with arousal. “Will you spank me, Mr. Hart? I really”—help, breath, words—“I really want you to.”

His other hand tightened on my neck and I swear to God I could feel his pulse pounding in his wrist. “It would be my pleasure.”

And then he…he did it. His palm cracked against my arse—the noise more startling than the pain and the impact more noticeable than either. I juddered forward a bit, though he kept me anchored, and swallowed a gasp. I’d known what was about to happen but it was still shocking for some reason.

He gave me a moment to process but my brain was kind of stuck on he hit me when he did it again—same spot, almost exactly, sending a flare of heat across my skin. The third time made me yelp and it was such a ridiculously undignified sound that I was giggling by the fourth. Then giggle-yelping as it went on. Not because it didn’t hurt—since it soon did, building from a swiftly fading sting to a deep, hot ache—but because it hurt in this totally giddy-making way. Some combination of the helplessness and the attention and the intimacy of his naked hand.

And, oh God, the freedom of it.

Of just being able to lie there and writhe and make silly noises and feel all the things: pain and arousal and fear and pleasure and this wild, wild joy.

Caspian was trembling, his strikes falling with a little less precision than they had originally and his breath sounding harsh in the spaces between. Which was a touch worrying.

“A-ah,” I managed to gasp out, “am I doing it right?”

He made this sound, probably a laugh, though it was ragged. Shot through with things I didn’t have the wherewithal right then to interpret. “I don’t care. Don’t stop.”

He was stroking me again: long gentle sweeps of his palms over my too-warm, too-sensitive flesh until it seemed like every last drop of blood in my body had gone south for the winter and redistributed itself evenly between my arse and my cock. The hurt was still there but through some strange alchemy of sex and trust, right then it was indistinguishable from passion.

I wailed and bucked against him in a semi-delirious and fully shameless attempt to make him touch me. He laughed again at that, a less broken sound this time. Not mocking, but softly teasing, even a little wonderstruck. His fingers brushed against my hole and I cried out frantically, all my giggling vanquished.

“God. Please. Please.”

He dipped inside and I reared up and swallowed him with my arse like Moby Dick. For a brief second it was the most beautiful, the most perfect feeling in the world: his finger pressing into me, a very slight stretch and this cool-water pleasure in the middle of the fire he had forced into my skin. And then it was just not enough, not nearly enough, relief becoming frustration becoming fresh and fiercer need.

I couldn’t tell if he was giving me cruelty or mercy but I wasn't entirely sure I cared. Trying not to think about how profoundly debauched I was going to look, I spread my legs as wide as I could get them, and…well…yeah, fucked myself on his fingers. It wasn’t much—mainly a sort of desperate rocking—but as self-torture went it was irresistible, teeny-tiny starbursts exploding behind my eyes with every very nearly nudge in the vicinity of my prostate.

I probably couldn’t have got off that way, but I was damn committed to trying. And he let me for a little while, his other hand still curled against my neck, petting me, making me feel tormented and indulged and cared for all at once. I tightened as he withdrew, greedily trying to keep him but, of course, I couldn’t. And so I was reduced to whimpering and twitching my arse pitifully at him instead.

“Ready for more?” he asked, tracing tantalizing circles where he had left me wanting.

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