Serving the Billionaire(23)

I went back out to the bar. This time, I had to lean against the edge for support while I waited for the bartender to get the bottle off the top shelf. My hands shook slightly. My swollen clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The vibrator stuttered and then buzzed slightly faster, and my mouth fell open on a silent moan.

The bartender slid the bottle across the counter to me. “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just... warm in here.”

He gave me an odd look, but turned away. I took the bottle and fled.

I really didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night.

Mr. Sutton was watching as I came through the door, and he motioned me over. I clutched the bottle, terrified that I would drop it. As I approached, he set his glass on the table and said, “A refill, please.”

I crouched and fumbled open the bottle. My hands felt like they were wrapped in cotton; my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My underpants were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I were making a mess of my tights as well. The fabric of my bra scraped against my tender nipples. And Mr. Sutton just sat there and watched me try to fight the unbearable pleasure he was inflicting on me.

Carefully, so carefully, I lifted the bottle and poured out a measure of whiskey.

Somehow I managed not to spill any.

Just as I set the bottle back on the table, the vibration increased yet again, and I dropped the cap. It fell to the table and bounced onto the floor. All of the guests turned to look at me.

I didn’t know what I looked like, but I could imagine: eyes too bright, face pink, mouth open, panting. I probably looked like I’d just been fucked. I looked away from the curious gazes and went down onto my knees to fish the cap out from where it had rolled beneath the sofa.

“She isn’t ordinarily so clumsy,” I heard Mr. Sutton say, and humiliation brought a fresh wave of heat to my face. I didn’t know why he would say something like that.

The guests chuckled. I retrieved the cap and sat up, hair threatening to escape from the tight bun I’d twisted it into. Mr. Sutton was looking at me, face unreadable.

“I’m sorry I dropped the cap,” I said quietly.

He leaned close enough to brush his lips against my ear. “I love watching you lose control,” he murmured.

I couldn’t think. I screwed the cap back onto the bottle.

He sat back and slid his hand into his pocket. I held my breath. Was he going to turn it off, or make the vibrations even stronger?

I didn’t think I could take any more.

But instead of forcing me to come like that, kneeling there on the floor with his guests arranged around me, he turned the vibrator off.

Greatly relieved, I climbed to my feet and went back to the fireplace.

He tormented me like that all evening: switching the vibrator on and off at erratic intervals, and watching me as I clung to the mantle and tried not to moan out loud. I was a shaking, oversensitive mess, but he always managed to turn off the vibrator just before I came. He brought me to the edge again and again, and then yanked me back from the precipice right before I was about to go over.

By the end, I was ready to beg him to let me come.

The party ended earlier than they usually did. One of the guests, the silver-haired gentleman, glanced down at his watch around 10, patted the curvy ass of the dancer who was sitting in his lap, and announced that it was time for him to go home. That seemed to be everyone else’s cue to leave as well, because they all gathered their things and were gone within fifteen minutes.

That left me alone in the room with Mr. Sutton.

He hadn’t moved; he was still sitting on the sofa, one hand loosely curled around his whiskey glass. As soon as the final guest left and the door shut behind him, Mr. Sutton turned to me and said, “Come here.”

I walked over to him, unsteady on my feet. As I approached, he uncrossed his legs and spread his thighs apart, showing me his erection.

I had never met a man who was so blatant in and comfortable with his sexuality. I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond to him. Giggle? Look away? Sink to my knees and unzip his pants?

That last option was probably the most appealing, but I didn’t think I would ever be bold enough to actually do it.

I came near the sofa and stopped. He looked up at me and placed one hand on the cushion beside him. “Sit,” he said.

I sat. Or, really, I collapsed onto the sofa. I’d been standing for most of the night, and my legs wouldn’t hold me anymore.

To my surprise, Mr. Sutton lifted one arm and curled it around my shoulders. I turned my head and looked at him. He looked back, his eyes darker in the dim light than their usual piercing blue. His thumb moved back and forth along my shoulder, caressing, and I shivered and relaxed against him.