I didn’t know where these thoughts were coming from. A month ago, this kind of relationship was something I’d read about in a few smutty novels—not something that people actually did. But here I was anyway, stripped bare in a billionaire’s bedroom, about to let him do things to my body that most people only saw in expensive porn.
I heard the door open, and turned my head to see Carter coming into the room, his hands full of fabric. I didn’t asked him what it was. I could guess.
He stopped at the foot of the bed and looked at me. His gaze was like a physical touch, running over my exposed body, making my nipples harden and my pussy throb with renewed heat. Anticipation formed a sweet knot in my belly, the kind of feeling that I imagined people usually referred to as “butterflies.” I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything in my entire life.
He came around the side of the bed and sat on the mattress beside me, resting the cloth in his lap. “You’re ready for me, aren’t you?”
I swallowed. I didn’t see any reason to deny it. “Yes,” I said, and then, testing how it would sound, “Please.”
He ran one hand down my back and over the curve of my ass. “I want you to hold onto the headboard. Don’t let go until I tell you that you can.”
“What happens if I let go?” I asked. Would he punish me?
“I’ll stop,” he said. “And you’ll go home, and we’ll never do this again.”
I swallowed. That wasn’t the sort of punishment I’d been imagining. I was thinking of some spanking, maybe. What he said sounded worse. “I won’t let go,” I said.
“I know you won’t,” he said. “You’re a good girl, and you want to make me happy.”
He was right, and I didn’t understand how he knew everything I was feeling. I wanted him to be happy with me. I reached my arms out and took hold of the slatted headboard, wrapping my fingers around two of the wooden bars. They were smooth and rounded, some sort of wood that I didn’t recognize. Mahogany, maybe. Or something fancier than that, some kind of rare rain forest wood that I’d never heard of.
Mental babbling was always a sign that I was nervous. I drew in a deep breath and tried to calm down. But I had been desperately turned on for about four hours straight, and it was hard to feel calm when he was sitting there looking at my naked body.
I flexed my fingers around the slats and waited.
“Good,” Carter said. He took the fabric from his lap and showed it to me. It was a long scarf, fringed at the ends, and made of a heathered charcoal material that looked like cashmere. “Close your eyes,” he said.
I obeyed, and felt the brush of soft cloth against my face, and then Carter’s fingers moving against my hair as he tied the scarf at the back of my head. Even with my eyes closed, the world suddenly became much darker. I opened my eyes again. My eyelashes brushed against the fabric, but I saw only darkness. The scarf was thick enough to cut out all light.
Unable to see anything, and unwilling to let go of the headboard, I waited.
I could feel my pulse throbbing in my clit, and in the thick artery deep in my belly.
My pussy flexed involuntarily. Wetness trickled down my thighs.
“I can smell how much you want me,” Carter said, his voice coming from somewhere above my left hip.
His words made my scalp prickle with a sudden flush of arousal. The air in the room didn’t feel cold anymore. I was overheated and sweating slightly. I arched my back, lifting my ass higher, hoping he would take it as the invitation I meant it to be. If he didn’t touch me soon, I was going to lose my mind.
And then he did, finally, trailing his fingers lightly down my ribs, making me jump. It wasn’t where I wanted him most, where I really wanted to feel his fingers, but it was better than nothing. It was a start.
His fingers left my ribs, and landed again on my hip. I jumped again. With no way to see what he was doing, every touch took me by surprise. He drew a burning line around the curve of my hipbone, down across my abdomen, down, almost there, and then he switched directions and moved back up my stomach. I could have cried with frustration.
His hand slid up the center of my body and came to rest just below my right breast. My nipple hardened with anticipation. He traced his fingers, so gently, up the underside of my breast, skirting around the nipple, and then switched to my other breast, drawing light circles with his fingernails, so close to where I wanted him to touch me but not quite there.
He was teasing me, I realized. It was a surprise for only a moment. I had thought he would get right down to business, but of course he wasn’t going to, not with the scarf, the elaborate setup—it was all about making me lose control. And I was going to. I could already tell. I was going to sob and beg and break for him, shatter into a million pieces and hope he could put me back together again.