Page 22 of Vivacity
‘Stop it. Don’t move. Keep reading.’
Jesus. I’m sweating a little already, trying not to pant like a bitch in heat. If Ethan needs to exert some control over me to regain his control overall after that little hissy fit from his dad, then I’m one hundred percent on board. Not to mention, he smells great. No cologne. I can’t imagine he bothers with bells and whistles like cologne. Just clean, soapy, male skin. I hope he’s enjoying my scent, too. I hope he spends the rest of the day unable to get my perfume out of his nostrils.
‘I hope you’re noting how complementary these businesses are outside of London,’ he murmurs, his lips trailing down the side of my neck again. ‘Their Sorrel Farm JV would give us so much reach in the rural leisure market.’
I am not noting that. I am, however, noting that my clit is thrumming wildly and my skin is on fire.
‘There’s a lot of overlap in London, though,’ I say with difficulty.
‘Doesn’t matter. Target demographics are different. They’re more tourist-focused, we’re stronger in business travel.’
He straightens up, releasing my hair, and there’s a pause before he slides his hands over my shoulders and down my front until they’re brushing my breasts. I make a strangled little sound at the back of my throat and stay stock still. I don’t want to do anything to throw him off his mission, which is hopefully to play my body like a fucking violin. Silently, I beg him to ramp up his groping. My dress may be made from annoyingly robust fabric, but my bra is sheer mesh. I want all the sensation he can give me.
Sure enough, he starts to knead my breasts slowly, palms and then thumbs skating over my nipples in a way that’s glorious and yet not remotely enough. While I daren’t actually arch into his touch, I take a full breath, expanding my lungs enough to push my tits a little further against him, my nipples steely, needy little bullets.
‘It’s very hard to give a shit about my father when I have your tits in my hands, Sophia. It’s very hard to give a shit about anything at all.’
‘Tell me what I can do to make you feel better,’ I say, my voice breathy.
‘Sit still, and shut up, and keep reading, and do as I say. That’s what you can do.’ His voice is as stern as it is tense.
I’m about to be a fucking Girl Scout for this man.
Just wait until he sees how good I can be. For good measure, I turn the page to some lovely charts on the breakdown of the business hotel market. Fascinating. Just fascinating. I pretend to scour the page for information as the extremely hot, controlling billionaire behind me continues to play with my breasts, cupping and stroking and kneading, his fingers teasing and rubbing my nipples, which are winning against my dress fabric. And it feelsso good. So, so good. My pussy is aching. Blazing. I can’t squirm, but I can squeeze my thighs together, and I can secretly do my Kegels and try to find some relief that way, and I can?—
‘Stop that at once.’
I stop.
‘What do you say?’
‘Sorry, Mr Kingsley.’ As if to underline my virtue, I scribbletwenty-six percentdown on my notepad.
He pinches my nipples through my dress, and I moan softly.
‘Apparently, I’ll have to teach you some self-control.’
‘I’ll enjoy every minute of being your pupil, Mr Kingsley.’
He blows out a ragged breath. He likes that. I bet he’s hard as a rock.
‘Keep reading.’
I flip to the next slide.
He bends over me and slides his hands down, down, down, until I can see them through the glass table, snagging on the hem of my dress. Behind me, his body is a wall of heat.
Yes yes yes!
‘This isn’t for you. You’re just a body for me to enjoy. Don’t let me interrupt you.’
Oh god, this is so hot. I give myself a gigantic silent round of applause for having had the foresight to lean the iPad vertically against my monitor rather than flat on the desk. My notepad is off to my right, meaning we both have a clear view of him tugging up the hem, up over the lace tops of my stockings and the little clips of my suspender belt, until he unearths my pink lace thong. (It’s the exact same shade as my dress. I’m a details girl.)
‘Open your legs.Slowly,’ he barks, with as much warning in his voice as if he’s asking an armed criminal to show him her hands. As I enthusiastically obey, he moves his hands around tothe sides so he can ruck the hem of my dress up even further over my arse so it bands around my middle.
‘Next page. Keep reading.Out loud.’ He slides one hand beneath my legs and strokes a couple of fingers over my lace-clad pussy with maddeningly lightness as he releases my dress and sticks the other hand down the front of my dress and into my bra, his fingers finding and brushing softly over my nipple. It’s utter, utter torture, having both his hands in exactly the right locations and yet refusing to touch me properly.
Desperately, I swipe and read. ‘Cost Efficiencies and Economies of Scale.’
