Page 80 of How to Belong with a Billionaire

It probably had something to do with the fact she’d kept me in a state of agonised arousal for what felt like hours. But I wasn’t in any mood to sass her. “Be-because I need to?”

“Yes, you’ve made that very clear. But”—she put a hand thoughtfully to her chin—“whydo you need to? Do you think it might be because you’re a voracious little slut?”

My face flamed with shame as sweet and neon-bright as American candy. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” she repeated. And leaned over me to lick up the precome that was dribbling like candlewax down the sides of my cock.

“Oh God. Okay. Yes. Yes. I’m a slut. Please…I can’t…I need…”

Lifting her head, she tsked. “Do try to pay attention. I didn’t say you were a slut. Anybody can be a slut. You, poppet, are a very special kind of slut.”

I quivered, my toes curling helplessly, and my fingers clawing at nothing. At this rate, she’d talk me over the edge, though, frankly, I was damn near desperate enough to take it. Sometimes it embarrassed me that she could do this to me—that she knew me well enough for words to be as potent as whips or chains—but mostly it was good embarrassment, making me feel seen and cared for and slightly toyed with.

“I’m waiting” she purred. “Tell me what kind of slut you are.”

Tossing my head against the pillow, I put up a faint show of resistance. Of course, I wasn’t actually resisting. I just occasionally liked to be a little broken.

“Tell me”—her fingers dipped between my pulled-wide legs and nudged the base of the plug—“and I’ll reward you.”

The thing is, I also knew George. Sexually speaking at least. And part of me recognised that I should absolutely clarify the nature of this reward. Unfortunately, most of me was a roiling mass of exposed nerves and thwarted desire, frantic to get off.

“I’m a…a…voracious slut,” I said. Okay, that’s a lie. I yelled that shit out like I wanted to make sure everyone in Swale got the message. “And I need to come.Please.”

“You are, poppet. You are. Look at you, wriggling and humping the air. Such a gluttonous young fuckpuppy. You’d do just about anything for pleasure, wouldn’t you?”

In my present condition? “Yes.Yes.What about my reward?”

“You shall have it, of course.” She smiled down at me. Red lips, white teeth. Princess and monster. “Your reward is to see some very lovely photographs.”

I nearly goddamn cried. “What? No…I mean…yes…just. Now?”

“No time like the present.”

“But”—I’m not even going to try and describe how pathetic I sounded—“I don’t like denial.”

She covered me with her body, which led to some very undignified bucking and squirming on my part, and kissed me deep, and rough, and nasty. “I would never deny you, poppet. I’m delaying you.”

“I don’t like delay either.” I kicked in my bonds—the world’s most abortive tantrum.

“Youlovecontrol, though. And”—her mouth grew gentle against mine—“you always know what you can do.”

I did. But this was not even remotely approaching a safe word situation. I uttered what I hoped was a heartbreaking whimper. Even if, thinking about it, trying to make a sadist feel bad about the sadism they were inflicting on you with your full consent was probably a lost cause from the outset. “Fine. Let’s go see some photos.”

She let me go and helped me up, but then drew my hands behind my back and recuffed them.

I gave her my biggest eyes. “Seriously?”

“What’s the matter?” Picking up her paisley silk dressing gown from where she’d thrown it earlier, she draped it over her shoulders. “You don’t need your hands to look, do you?”

She had a point. A mean point.

“Don’t pout, poppet. Come along.” Her hand encircled my cock and gave the poor, suffering thing a little tug.

Probably I should have resisted this indignity, but my hips had other ideas, and also, the friction was just too good. It took us a while to reach the studio because I kept pausing to moan, and George kept pausing to make me moan. But once we arrived, I saw the table, where I’d had many kinky adventures, was spread with pictures.

George settled into a chair and pulled me into her lap. I went submissively enough because, frankly, my brain was needy mush. Let her ease my knees apart, exposing me in all my urgent horniness to the drift of air and her tormenting touches.

“These are some of my favourites.” I think she was talking about the images but her hands were gliding up and down my inner thighs. “What do you think?”

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