Maybe that was his world.
It wasn't hers.
Non-negotiable terms? They weren't in her world either.
So he didn't want a wife; she knew that already, having read about his aversion to wedding bells in every magazine interview she came across. He just wanted a toy basically, so that when he grew bored he could throw her away and get a shiny new one.
As soon as the seat-belt light was off, a uniformed steward came through the cabin with coffee—in real cups—and a tray of bagels.
Ben whispered, "He'll massage your feet if you want him to."
"Thanks. I'll manage."
It was the most comfortable, civilized flight she'd ever taken. So this was how the one percent lived. Bry tried not to look phased by it.
He was on the phone now—a special one that came with the plane. Legs stretched out, fingers occasionally drumming on the wide leather arm of his chair, he could be sitting in an office anywhere, untroubled by the fact that he was thousands of feet in the air.
Ben Petruska was, curiously enough, not a conventionally handsome man. He could never be mistaken for a male model. His looks were rough about the edges, like his manners. Taken one by one his features were nothing special. But somehow, all put together in their crooked way they were breathtaking, heart stopping. He had shoulders wider than some doors and hands that looked as if they could crack walnuts. Something about him made her think "gypsy". Was it the dark wavy hair? The wild spark in his eye? The dangerous, panty-dropping smile?
Was any of this for real? She was in a private fucking plane and heading for the fucking Bahamas with Ben fuck-me Petruska.
Nice language for a Chartered Accountant, young lady.
Calm down, Bry. He did this sort of thing all the time. You don't want to look like a rank amateur do you?
Besides she had terms to re-negotiate with this high-flying, mercenary, cut-throat business tycoon.
David slew Goliath, right?
She unclasped her belt buckle and stretched.
His attention instantly snapped to her. Bry crossed her legs slowly, hitching sideways in the soft, plush leather chair, knowing it would pull her skirt up a few inches and expose the lace band at the top of her thigh-high stockings. She wriggled out of her black blazer and tossed it to a vacant chair.
Ben's dark green eyes had turned slightly foggy.
Yawning, she reached up and unpinned the clip from her hair, letting it fall to her shoulders.
The steward passed and took their empty coffee cups. She watched Ben give him a discreet signal and as soon as the other man had disappeared behind a curtain, he hung up the phone.
"Did you just cut someone off mid conversation?" she asked, amused.
He shrugged. "I was done."
"Alrighty then." She slid on her knees between them and rested her hands on his spread knees. "My turn to eat."
"Should have a bagel," he muttered.
"That's not what I had in mind."
Slowly she slid a palm over the bulge in his crotch. A magnificent bulge. She was already damp between her legs, thinking about the weekend she'd just embarked upon. No one knew she was there with this dangerous man. Helena would go crazy if she found out. Her mother would think Paris had turned her into a tart, she mused. Her mother, a stout flame-haired Irishwoman had no great opinion of the French and "their ways".
"I haven't asked you to suck me off," he observed sternly.
"So you haven't." The zipper hissed softly as she drew it down. Today he wore boxers and his erection stabbed out through the opening in the cotton panel. She saw that both his hands now gripped the chair arms. "But I haven't signed your dumb contract either. I think I'm too independent for you. I tend to do just what I want."
Bry leaned forward and licked the thick vein that stood out from root to head. He twitched; his cock arched. Stroking his broad thighs she felt the muscle tense. Again she licked him, pressing her tongue up his length and back again. He grabbed his balls, tugging them out of the slit in his boxers and then she mouthed them gently, working her tongue over the warm skin, sucking and nibbling. Somewhere above her he groaned.
She nudged his knees wider apart and settled in for a firm sucking, swallowing his knob and the hard ridges of his sword-like shaft, easing it down her throat. He tasted salty and already a drop of creamy cum dripped to her tongue.
Each time she felt him thrusting, she slowed down, let his cock pop out of her mouth and left it untended for a moment while she licked his scrotum again and kissed his inner thighs.
"Have many other women signed your contract before?" she asked, seriously wondering. "Did Philippa?"
He avoided the question. "Finish me," he grunted, running his hands through her loose hair. "Let me come in your throat."