Serving the Billionaire(19)

I reached behind myself to unhook the clasp of my bra, and slowly drew the straps down my shoulders, taking care to keep the cups in place, covering my breasts. Then, finally, I let the bra slide away down my body. I caught one strap in my fingers and tossed the bra onto the back of the couch, beside Mr. Sutton.

The cool air in the room felt good on my overheated flesh. I glanced down at myself, trying to see what Mr. Sutton saw. My breasts were small but firm and round: nothing like the lush feminine curves of most of the dancers, but not terrible. Not unappealing. And Mr. Sutton clearly liked them. The bulge in his pants had grown bigger, and his lips parted as he stared at me.

He stood abruptly, and stood before me, so close that our bodies almost touched, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating from him. “Gorgeous creature,” he murmured, and I watched, frozen, as he lifted one hand and set it on my shoulder.

“Mr. Sutton,” I said, and then couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Every cell in my body yearned for him.

He drew his hand down to cup my right breast, and moved his thumb to slide over my nipple. I let out an involuntary gasp at the way it felt. My skin tingled just from the light pressure of his fingers, and as he toyed with my nipple, I was almost overwhelmed by the urge to slide to my knees and beg him to fuck me. I couldn’t think of anything I had ever wanted more.

“Your pussy’s wet, isn’t it?” Mr. Sutton asked me.

His voice was so gentle that it took me a moment to absorb what he’d said, but then it hit home, and my cheeks flamed. I shook my head, not denying it, but unable to answer. He couldn’t possibly expect me to agree with him.

“Tell me,” he said, still gentle, but insistent.

“Yes,” I whispered, humiliated beyond measure, but his thumb kept moving, teasing me, and I wanted him. I didn’t ever want him to stop touching me.

“Good girl,” he said, and the approval in his voice nearly undid me.

He took his hand away, as suddenly as he’d moved it there in the first place. “The others will be here soon,” he said. “Will you pour some drinks, please?”

I didn’t understand how he could switch gears so quickly. It took me a few moments to redirect my brain from thinking about sex and hunger and his fingers and my pussy. “Yes,” I said, after too long of a pause.

“Thank you,” he said. “I need to speak with Germaine.”

And just like that, calm as anything, he headed for the door.

When it clicked shut behind him, I shoved my hand down my skirt, inside my tights and underwear, and stroked myself until I came, thighs quivering, still standing in the middle of the room. It only took about a minute. That’s how aroused I was just from being close to Mr. Sutton, from him touching me a little.

I wondered what would happen if he ever touched me with more intent. I would probably melt, or explode. I definitely wouldn’t survive it.

By the time Mr. Sutton returned, I had wiped my hand on a napkin and smoothed my hair into place, and positioned myself beside the fireplace. I hoped I looked calm and implacable. Unreadable. I didn’t want him to know how he affected me. I was afraid. I was scared of how intensely I responded to him, and how intensely he responded to me. I didn’t know what would happen. I felt like I was hurtling down a mountainside in a car with no brakes.

He didn’t touch me again for the rest of the night. Aside from the fact that I was topless, it was more or less exactly like the last time I’d served for him. His guests paid more attention to me, their eyes greedily taking in my body as I moved around the room, but none of them bothered me or even spoke to me much. They were occupied with the dancers, and when there were two fully naked women in the room, a girl without a shirt on didn’t draw much attention. I was more or less left to serve drinks in peace.

Mr. Sutton, unlike his guests, basically ignored the dancers. Instead, he tracked me around the room all night, following me with his eyes even while he spoke with the other guests. His laser focus on me was both flattering and terrifying. I still didn’t understand what he saw in me—why he had chosen me for such particular attention, when I wasn’t beautiful or cultured or fascinating. And that threw me off balance. If I knew what he wanted, I would be on solid ground; but his motivations were totally mysterious to me, and I wasn’t sure what to do or say or think, or feel.

At the end of the night, he handed me a fat envelope and said, “You did very well tonight.”

I didn’t want his approval to matter, but it did. “Thank you,” I said, blushing.