Typist #2 Spanking the Billionaire Novel(17)

I cried out in bliss and wrapped my legs around his hips, his fingers still massaging my clit. It was perfect to be coming with him inside me.

And then we were back at it, with him thrusting harder and faster, until he shook, ejaculating again, panting above me and looking surprised once more.

He collapsed on me and laughed at himself for the second time that morning.

Into my neck, he sighed and said, “You make me fuck like a teenager.”

I laughed. “I wouldn't know. I've never fucked a teenager.”

He pulled back and gave me a questioning look, but he didn't ask whatever seemed to be on his mind.

I said, “I have to pee.”

“Good luck with a man passed out on top of you.” He closed his eyes and went completely limp, relaxing his body weight onto me.

After a minute, I feared he might actually fall asleep on me, and I did notice some pressure on my bladder, so I wriggled my way out from underneath him.

Even as I left the room, he remained there, face-down, pretending to be passed out.

“I'm going to fry up that nice bacon,” I said.

He didn't answer.

“And I'm going to eat all of it.”

He rolled onto his side and narrowed his eyes at me. “If you do, you'll get another spanking.”

Both of us glanced over to the hairbrush on the floor, where he'd tossed it the night before.

He started to climb off the bed, his gaze on the brush, but I darted over and grabbed it quickly, then ran squealing out of the room.

He called down the stairs after me, “I can always spank you with my hand!”

My heart was still pounding when I got down to my room and climbed into the shower.

The feeling I had—the excitement mingled with fear and warmth—it reminded me of summer camp, and all the silly things the girls would dare each other to do, like sneaking over to the boys' cabin and trading underwear with them.

Smith and I were at this cabin, on our own, and we were like little kids, playing games and pushing each other's buttons, trying to see how far each could push the other.

I'd spanked him, but then I'd also let him finger me in a crowded park, have sex with me in an alley, and he'd given me quite the spanking the night before.

In the hot shower, I checked my buttocks for red marks, but everything looked as fine as ever. That must be why people spank each other there, I thought. It felt good, but didn't leave a mark.

Soon, this typing contract would be over, though, and I'd return home.

Being with Smith certainly felt good for now, but would it leave a mark?





5: LET'S GO SOMEWHERE FOR DINNER

After I got dressed, I fried up the bacon as promised and made us some eggs. I wasn't totally sure how Smith liked his eggs, but I'd seen him eating them scrambled, so I scrambled a batch.

He came down the stairs, dressed impeccably as always. We were out in the country, yet he had on a perfectly-wrinkle-free, white, button-down shirt and a pair of khakis. I glanced down at my own outfit, which was comprised of the new clothes we'd bought in town: a pair of short, black shorts, and a ruffled white top that revealed my midriff. That was when I realized he'd been dressing up for me, just as I'd been dressing up for him.

He poured some tea and kissed me on the cheek. “You'll make someone a fine wife some day,” he said.

“Ha ha,” I said.

“I'm serious! A lot of women your age don't know how to cook.” He took a seat at one of the stools near the counter and watched me.

I could feel his gaze on me, and got nervous and dropped some utensils. “I can cook all sorts of things. Baked beans from scratch, lots of soups, pot roast.”

“Poor people food,” he said, smiling.

“That's rude,” I said. “Baked beans are yummy. Not everybody has the budget for foie gras.”

He sipped his tea, looking nonplussed. “Exactly. It's poor people food.”

The air around me turned to ice. He was insulting me, lording his wealth over me, like it made him better than everyone else.

I set down the silverware a little harder than necessary. “I should make you some red beans and rice so you can really slum it. You can fuck your little poverty-stricken typist and then eat the food of her people, the poor.”

He gazed down at his tea. “Poverty-stricken? Are we perhaps exaggerating just a bit?”

I piled my plate high with bacon and scrambled eggs, then tossed the remainder into the garbage bin below the sink.

“Make your own breakfast,” I said. “I'm not your personal chef.”

“You're not that poor. Your mother's a hospital administrator, not a waitress at a truck stop.”

I put my plate back down on the counter. “How do you know what my mother does for a living?”

“You must have told me.”

“No, I didn't.” I stared hard at him, looking for cracks in his expression. “Did you do some sort of research on me before I came here?”