Serving the Billionaire(18)

Maybe he did, for all I knew.

I raised my shaking hands and undid the first button on my shirt. The soft lapels fell aside to expose my collarbone. I glanced up, shy and embarrassed, and met Mr. Sutton’s gaze. He was still staring at me intently.

I undid the second button, and the silk draped out of the way to reveal the black lace of my bra. It was a new purchase, one that I’d made with Mr. Sutton in mind. I’d stood in the changing room and decided that he seemed like the type of man who liked lacy lingerie. The color, too, had been a conscious choice: he wouldn’t like red, I thought. Too obvious.

Judging from the way his pupils dilated slightly when he saw my bra, I’d made the right decision.

I realized that I was aroused. At first, the discovery was almost academic, as I noted my quickened breathing, hard nipples, and throbbing pussy. That lasted for only a second, though, before I was overwhelmed both by lust and by what it meant. I liked having Mr. Sutton look at me. I liked the implicit humiliation of the situation: him cool and in control, sitting down, fully dressed; and me exposed, subservient, taking off my clothes for a man I knew almost nothing about.

And I wanted it. I wanted him to humiliate me. I wanted to beg.

Learning new things about yourself is always unpleasant, mainly because you don’t learn good things. Nobody suddenly figures out that they’re beautiful or witty or awesome at giving compliments. If you’re beautiful, people tell you. It’s not a surprise. But if you’re ugly, people are so careful to never mention your appearance at all that you might go years before you’re struck with the sudden knowledge that something’s wrong with your face.

I felt like that: like some passer-by on the street called me a nasty word, and I went home and stared at myself in the mirror and realized that it was true, that I was hideous. It wasn’t normal to think about the things that I was thinking about. Sex was supposed to be white sheets and rose petals, long kisses, sweet caresses. Not this, broken open inside a high-class strip club.

All of this passed through my mind in the few seconds it took me to lower my hands to the third button of my shirt.

Mr. Sutton reached out and touched my hip, carefully, with just the tips of his fingers. “Slow down,” he said. “There’s no rush. I want to look at you.”

That was the problem: I wanted him to look at me, and I didn’t want to want it. Maybe if I hurried to get my shirt off, I wouldn’t have to time to focus on how much I was enjoying the whole situation#p#分页标题#e#

But it wasn’t up to me. Mr. Sutton was paying me. I had to do whatever he wanted.

I shivered, thinking about all of the things he could make me do. I would do them. Anything, whatever he wanted, or close enough.

I slowed down. I’d seen one of the dancers giving a customer a striptease, just the night before, and I tried to imitate the things that she had done. I slid the third button halfway out of the hole, and then looked at him from beneath lowered eyelids, my hair falling over my face like a curtain. I bit my lip.

It seemed to work. Mr. Sutton exhaled through his nose and let his thighs spread apart slightly. I glanced down at his lap and noticed a bulge in his trousers. It occurred to me, for the first time, that I wasn’t the only one aroused by my performance. Mr. Sutton was turned on, too—maybe just as turned on as I was.

Well, obviously, I told myself. It shouldn’t have been a surprise. He was paying me to take my clothes off for him. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t find me appealing.

But knowing that, rationally, was wholly different from seeing the undeniable proof of his desire for me. Mr. Sutton wanted me.

My skin felt hot, like the chandelier overhead was the mid-summer sun. My pussy throbbed steadily, and I could feel my panties growing damp. He hadn’t even touched me, and I was already slicking myself wanting him.

I exhaled and undid another button.

With the final button, the two halves of my shirt parted fully, hanging loosely at my sides and exposing my bra and my flat, brown stomach. I fought the urge to cover myself with my hands, and instead pulled my shoulders back, shook my hair out of my face, and stood as tall and proud as I could. Inside, I was terrified and confused, but outside I was Sadie, and Mr. Sutton could look all he wanted.

My nipples were rock-hard, and I was sure they were protruding through the thin lace of my bra. I watched Mr. Sutton’s face as his gaze raked over my exposed body. His blue eyes were dark with arousal, the pupils blown huge. Nobody had ever wanted me like this.

It was a good feeling.

“Take off your bra,” Mr. Sutton said. His voice was deeper than usual, and had a ragged edge to it that sent a shiver up my spine.