Billionaire Novelist 3 : The Wicked Redhead and the Billionaire Novelist(25)

"You're bad for me!"

Softly, barely audible, he said, "Don't make me beg."

I turned the handle and clicked the door open.

There he was, already shirtless, his trousers on, but unbuttoned, a bulge visible behind the zipper.

He slapped the looped belt against his open palm. "Pull up your dress, pull down your panties, and lean over the bed."

Legs shaking, I did as I was told.

He rubbed my bu**ocks with his hands.

"That singer made you hot, didn't he? Your little pu**y's all wet."

He ran one thick finger up the insides of my thighs and then along my lips and opening.

"That's for you," I said.

He brought the looped belt down on my ass. It made a thwapping sound, but didn't hurt as much as his palm would have.

I buried my face in my hands. "The singer made me hot," I said, the devil in me putting a giggle in my voice. "If you hadn't come along when you did …  I was going to seduce him."

Thwap.

I continued, "I was going to suck his big, rock star cock."

Thwap.

"And then I was going to f**k his brains out."

Thwap. Thwap.

"I wanted him to f**k me in the ass."

Thwap.

"Like a dirty girl."

Thwap.

I stopped talking and just cried out in pleasure and longing, one low moan, hugging the bed with my arms.

Smith responded by dropping the belt. Something pressed at my pu**y, something much larger than his fingers. He slid in easily on my slick juices, and I cried out in surprise as he buried himself in me.

He pumped me a few times, then pulled out and pressed the tip of his c**k against my flesh, one door away from my pu**y.

I got very quiet, unsure of what was going to happen next. 

"Relax," he said. "It'll feel good."

He had both hands on my bu**ocks, massaging them, and I did try to relax.

"Good girl." He nudged down again and stroked in and out of my pu**y a few more times, his flesh rubbing against mine, then he pointed up again and the tip slid right into my tight hole.

"Oh!" And there he was, balls-deep in my ass.

He let out a low, sexy growl. "There's my princess," he said, and he began to slide more vigorously in and out.

His shaft seemed wider now, in this tighter hole, and as he pulsed in and out, the sensations shifted from specific friction and pressure to more of a whole-body tingle.

I grunted and asked him to give me more, harder.

And he did.

We adjusted positions a few times, moving all the way onto the bed, and as he balled my ass, he rubbed my slick nub with his fingers until I came. I moaned and curled into the sensation of pleasure, worrying I was going to tighten too much and hurt him, but he kept assuring me that everything was perfect. After I came, he gave me three quick, hard thrusts, and then he groaned as he came.

We lay together in silence for a few seconds, then he withdrew and slapped me on the ass, hard enough to leave a big, red palm mark.

"Let that be a lesson to you," he said, and then he disappeared to the washroom to clean up.

A lesson?

Losing my back door virginity had been insane, in the good way.

I didn't get it. What lesson? That good things happen after you flirt with strange men?

Part 5: The End of the Detective Novel

After spanking and f**king, we ventured back out of the hotel suite and spent the remainder of the day acting like garden-variety tourists. We went to a souvenir shop and bought some tacky T-shirts and big hats, and we joined a walking tour and then a bus tour.

We visited the top of Mount Royal, the mountain that gave the city of Montreal its name. The mountain was also a gorgeous park, right in the middle of the city, like Central Park in New York. I learned that the same landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, was involved in the plans for both parks.

Smith and I sat on the grass and watched an eclectic group of people play their drums, called tam-tams. He wrapped his arm around me, as if I might float away with the sound of the drums if he ever let me go. The only moment he wasn't touching me was when we walked around Philips Square, and he ran into a fancy department store to use the washroom while I bought ice cream.

That night, we dined at a fancy place, and I wore nice clothes and behaved myself.

Smith seemed disappointed by my good behavior.

He asked me to tell him about the trip I took to Mexico with Todd. I got angry at him again for all his spying, but he laughed and reminded me I'd sorta mentioned Mexico during the threesome (or was it a foursome?) with Todd.

I apologized and told him about our trip, which hadn't been half as memorable as a single day in Montreal with Smith. He kept asking for more details, like what hotels did we stay in, and how many times per day did we make love.

"I don't remember," I said.

"My wife and I made love twice a day on our honeymoon."