Billionaire Novelist 3 : The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist(11)

I put my hands on my hips. "Yes, Smith. I am trying to kill you with my nagging. Five more days and I should have you in a coma."

He didn't respond.

I said, "Really? I'm boring you now?"

He acted like he couldn't hear me, like I was in some magical container-like a doll in a box, that he could take out when he wanted to play and ignore the rest of the time.

I was still near the kitchen, and I grabbed the dishes I'd tidied up. I would just return them to the coffee table as a peace offering. It would be a statement of how little I cared about the tidiness of the penthouse.

As I approached Smith, however, I could feel the aggressive energy radiating from him.

My anger took over, and I dumped the tray of leftover salad and pasta sauce right on his lap.

He jumped up, his eyes flashing, and he came at me.

I started to run, a nervous smile and squeal on my lips.

I didn't even make it to the dining room before he caught me.

He seized my arms and held them behind my back, then he walked me, slowly and deliberately, to the master bedroom.

I didn't complain about his tight grip on my wrists.

"A lady spanked me today," I said.

He pushed me down on the bed, my feet still on the floor, so I was bent forward with my face in the covers and my h*ps in the air.

In a flash, he had my dress pulled up, and he laid a stinging slap across my ass.

I winced, but didn't cry out.

"That's too hard," I said evenly.

He smacked my bottom again, not quite as hard this time.

"Cup your hand a little," I said. "Or you'll tire out your hand."

"We need a gag. I could do with less talking."

"Smith. It's important for us to have a dialog. Before acting out a scene."

He slapped my ass again, this time with less anger, and the stinging was more bearable. He slowed down and massaged the area, running his thick fingertips up and down between my cheeks and across the lining of my panties, where I was getting wet with excitement.

I thought about everything the woman at the sex shop had said about the BDSM scene, and the difference between play and abuse, or the gray areas of roleplaying. I sighed to myself. Smith was more of a gray area kind of guy.

He kept massaging my backside, his tender touches feeling heavenly in between the bursts of sensation from the spanking. Despite all my plans to talk to him, the words left me. I moaned and adjusted my posture so he had easier access to the area between my legs. I wanted him inside me, without delays.

He said some coarse things as he slipped his fingers under the side of my panties. His words became even more vulgar as he thrust one thick digit inside me.

"I want you," I said.

"Your cunt wants me." He pushed my cheeks apart and wiggled his finger as he went deeper. "Shush," he said. "Just shush."




 

 

Just shush. No, Smith Wittingham wasn't really a talk-through-the-scenario kind of guy. But did I care? His finger slipped out and found that hot button, the spot that had been aching for his touch since before we landed in Montreal. My eyes rolled up with pleasure, and I surrendered to the moment. All that talking business was about building trust, and I did trust Smith. I'd known the man for barely a week, but I knew what kind of man he was, or so I thought.

But did he know me? And could he know how far I was willing to push him?

"You didn't answer my question," I said, my voice muffled by the bed.

He grunted in response and yanked down my panties so hard, I could hear the thin fabric rend.

"Question," he muttered. "What question? Spread your legs wider so I can see all that pink."

"Is there any surface?" I asked, channeling both my mother and the Goddess of Nagging, whoever that was. "Smith Wittingham. Is there any surface you didn't make a big, dirty mess on?"

He smacked my bottom again, as hard as the first time.

I gasped. "I can't leave you alone for more than an hour!"

Another smack.

I didn't hear his clothes his the floor, but I felt the heat of his na**d skin, of his erection between my bare legs.

"Yeesh, I'm still wearing my damn dress," I said. "You're so impatient."

He grunted something unintelligible as he swept the head of his c**k up and down my pu**y, everything as slick as it was willing.

I twisted my torso to look back at him, to see if he was smiling or serious, but he avoided eye contact, looking straight down or closing his eyes.

"Fine, don't look at me when you f**k me," I said. "So rude."

He kept teasing me with the tip, nudging the hot, bare head in and out, seemingly aware of how bad I wanted him inside me.

"Make up your mind," he said, between ragged breaths. "Do you want me to look at you, or f**k you?"