Page 19 of Seven Nights

Harriet lifts a finger, smiling so I know she’s not offended by my giving her less work to do or invading her professional domain. Clearly, she has worked for the family a long time. I know how proprietary staff can get.

Walking over to one of the large pantry doors, she opens it wide to reveal a laminated diagram.

“At least half the cupboards are bare,” she tells me. “Just the three of us and only Philip and me most of the time.”

I bob my head. Montgomery owns many homes. Among them is a penthouse in Chicago not too far from the office building with its starkly serene garden.

“Maybe I’m being foolish,” she says, returning to the island. “But I hope the house has children in it before I am too old to take care of them. A building so beautiful shouldn’t be a mausoleum.”

Grabbing her coffee cup, she turns away from me.

“Maybe you should forget I said that, dear.”

I am too stunned to offer any assurances before Philip comes in. The man’s presence makes me uncomfortable even though he has the same kind eyes and smile as his wife. I finish the rest of my sandwich and the fruit quickly, compliment Harriet on the meal once more, then leave.

The next few hours are spent aimlessly exploring the mansion’s interior. I visit the lap pool but am unsuitably attired for swimming. Maybe there are clothes for me in the bedroom, but I didn’t check. Since I am wearing dress pants, I just sit at the edge of the water and stare for a while before moving on.

Few doors are closed. I don’t test those that are. I find a library, but the books seem more oriented toward decor and not content. A row of black, a row of brown, all leather or cloth, nothing new and the leather never mixing with cloth. There’s a home theater, but the equipment is too complicated for me to consider turning it on.

Eventually, I find my way back to the bedroom around seven and run a hot bath. I fill the tub with thick foam, smirking as I sink into the water.

I don’t doubt the technology exists, but it would be complete overkill, even for someone as rich and controlling as Montgomery, to know where or how I might be occupying my hands beneath the layer of bubbles. But even though I probably can touch myself, I don’t. I want his hands on me, in me. I want his fat, beautiful cock pounding me or taking me sweet and slow.

It’s totally not fair, but he is an amazing lover, his power out in the world giving him a confidence few men possess. It is a surprising aphrodisiac—surprising because I have long had an anti-authoritarian streak, shaped in part by my asshole father, Judge Gregory T. Willow, J.D., LLM, and ninja-level SOB.

Thinking of my old man turns my smile into a scowl. I force my thoughts back in Montgomery’s direction. The change quickly alters my body's response to the wet, steamy environment. Recalling the hard lines of the billionaire’s chest and the sublime intensity of his face, I am right back to desperately needing to stroke at my clit.

Too bad my face will give me away. He doesn’t need fancy technology, just the camera I already know is there. I look around the room for solutions. There are candles on the shelves. I could light them, turn out the lights and try very hard to keep my expression clear of any evidence of my pleasure.

Just the thought has my brows lifting and my mouth wrinkling with need. My face is already giving me away and my hands are nowhere near my pussy. I lift them out of the water, grip the sides of the freestanding tub and stare at the ceiling.

If my hands are visible, I can’t possibly be touching myself.

And I don’t really need to touch myself to get off. I just have to think of Montgomery and exercise a little muscle control.

My smirk from earlier resurfaces. Keeping my gaze focused where I think the camera must be, I put my imagination and muscles to work. Picturing his thickly veined cock stretching me, I squeeze my vaginal wall, forcing it to make inward rolling contractions. Moaning, I arch my back, my eyes unable to stay open.

Fuck, this feels good. It’s nothing like having him in me, but imagining Montgomery, his hands everywhere, his mouth kissing mine, his tongue edging my teeth until he breaks the kiss to fasten on one of my swollen nipples, the muscles of my pussy knotting and rolling the entire time—it’s more than good enough to keep me on edge.

Releasing a shaky breath, I flip the drain’s lever and watch the water level slowly drop. I slow the pace of my coiling muscles, postponing any orgasm until I can dry off and take my experiment to the bed. Closing in on seven-forty, he might be watching me, hoping to see me squirm in anticipation of his arrival.

Instead, he’ll see me climaxing, hands-free and in technical compliance with his cruel rule.

Out of the tub, I look through the body products artfully arranged near the double sink. I select a bottle of almond oil and take it into the bedroom. Climbing onto the center of the mattress, I begin applying a light coating of oil to moisturize my skin. I start with the arms, move down over my breasts and stomach to skirt the edges of my pussy, my thighs splayed, my sex open to the camera’s inspection.

I continue down my thighs, my breasts lightly swaying as I knead my leg muscles with slippery hands. I take extra time with my feet, remembering the spark of appetite in the alley when Montgomery saw my red suede pumps. I arch my feet, finish them then slowly move back up my legs, once again daring to brush the perimeter of my sex. With just my index fingers, I lightly outline the area before wiping the last of the oil from my hands onto my stomach.

Reaching above my head, I grip the top lip of the headboard and start the show in earnest.

Griffin

The live feedon the bedroom camera is riveting. Sexy, achingly beautiful in my eyes and very deserving of a spanking, Katelyn has just finished oiling down her body. Grabbing the headboard, she spreads her legs wide and begins to taunt and tease me in earnest.

She must be rolling the muscles of her pelvic floor because the labia are sliding and the swollen clit jumps up and down with each deep squeeze inside her. More enchanting is her face. She is a fallen angel reveling in being disobedient, in defying her master.

I glance quickly at the clock. My intent was to make her wait long beyond nine, watch her squirm on the monitor, her face silently pleading with me each time she looks in the camera’s direction. But I won’t last that long, not unless I’m willing to spill my seed all over my office furniture when I could be spilling it inside her lovely cunt.

I press a hand against the front of my pants in frustration. Controlling the urge is not supposed to be difficult—not for me. And I certainly don’t intend to allow my little pet to beat me at my own game.

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