Bartered Passion: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 6 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) Read online

  I turned to see him sitting languidly in an old, iron chair, sprawled out as though he were on a couch in a warm room, one foot stuck out, one arm over the back. His thighs, straining against the fine fabric of his trousers, looked full and inviting. I wanted to squeeze them, to chew on them. I wanted to wrap my legs around them and ride them to heaven. I hadn't straddled him yet, and I wanted to. What would his hips feel like, pounding into me? What would it feel like to be impaled under him, impaled on top of him?

  Swallowing, I walked across the short distance to him. The grit of dust scratched under my feet.

  He watched me. His green eyes seemed to glow in the light of the city around us, looking straight through my skin to the person underneath. I felt like he knew me, even though that couldn't be true. He had wrung me out, hung me up to dry and twist in the wind, and I wanted more. I hated rich men, men who wanted only to possess, not to love, and yet I was a slave to him. With every touch of his hand, he unmade me and remade me again.

  I laid down over his lap, my ass cold and bare, and stared at the pattern of the poured concrete under my face. His thighs burned against me, warm and inviting. The heat we would make would drive the cold away. But not before he had taken his fill of my submission.

  One warm hand moved against my thighs, squeezing, rubbing, and I had to force myself not to squirm. My heart hammered against my chest, beating against my bones, looking for a way out.

  Fingers moved up, parted my slick pussy lips, revealing me to the cold, and I moaned softly.

  "Fight it, Felicia," he whispered. "Don't give in."

  Then he lifted his hand, and I knew he was going to spank me.

  But that knowledge did nothing to prepare me for it.

  His hand came down, a heavy smack, across my ass and on the lips of my pussy, and I couldn't help but cry out and jerk.

  "Fight it," he hissed at me.

  I bit my lip and he pulled back and spanked me again. The sting radiated out across my ass, over the flesh, and I felt it jiggle all the way up my body. My cunt ached for his touch, and it seemed it would take it any way it could get it, because with the next smack I felt a pulse deep in my belly, rich and throbbing. Was it possible he could make me come just by spanking me? I didn't want to know, but I couldn't tell him to stop. My breasts lay heavy against his legs, my nipples two burning points as they rubbed over him with each smack of his hand and jerk of my body.

  He picked up his pace, and my pussy throbbed. My inner walls clenched, begging to be fucked while my clit stood at attention, a hard little ground zero for Anton's open palm. Again and again he spanked me, and at last I couldn't help it.

  My lips parted and I moaned as my body jerked and twitched beyond my control, the open slap of his palm driving me higher and higher, pain and pleasure mixing in a way I never knew possible. I was going to come, was going to give myself over to his punishment and let him take me. I wanted it. I needed it. He had made me an addict for his hands, for his control. I needed to be his.

  "Please," I said.

  "Beg me," he answered. "Beg me for it."

  "Please, let me come. Please!"

  He spanked me again, lighter this time, but the swell of my ass was so sensitive by now that I still jerked and spasmed, unable to stop myself. The nub of my clit pulsed, and he flattened his palm and began to spank my pussy, lightly, quickly, deftly tapping against my slick lips until my whole body curled and coiled inward.

  I exploded.

  My orgasm came upon me like a ton of dynamite, my clit and pussy suddenly contracting so hard I saw stars. My body curled over his legs, and against my side I felt the grinding hardness of his erection. Tap tap tap went his hand, and I shrieked, every nerve alive and alight with pleasure as I came.

  He didn't let me recover. Instead, as my pussy still quivered and clenched, he curled a hand around the cleft of my ass, pushing his fingers into my slick channel, rough but oh, so delicious. I pushed back into his hand, mindless and needy, and then he was lifting me as easily as if I were a rag doll, standing me up in front of his chair, my back to him.

  I quivered and jerked with each wave of my orgasm as he reached down, sliding his hands over the sensitive insides of my thighs.

  "You will ride me," he said, and his words aroused me even further. A gaping emptiness between my legs told me I needed his cock inside me, and I was pathetically grateful he was going to give it to me. He was going to fuck me, and I couldn't have been happier.

  Somewhere far away, I knew I was acting out of character, but I couldn't help it. I didn't want to help it. What had being uptight, in control Felicia ever gotten me? A string of shit boyfriends and shit relationships. What Anton and I had wasn't exactly traditional, but he made me come, and right now, that was enough. That was all I needed.

  The soft sound of his zipper reached my ears, and then he was pulling me back by my hips. My heated flesh pimpled in the frigid air, but my pussy was as hot and wet as ever. I helped him lift me up and spread my thighs, until I was straddling his lap, so stretched out my hamstrings screamed for mercy. I paid them no attention. All I wanted was his cock, and then it was pushing into me, against the slick entrance of my pussy, and I wanted to cry with relief.

  Then he pulled me down, slamming his hips into mine, and I cried out, no longer caring what I sounded like or who heard me. My parents were only a few floors up. If they looked out a back window, they'd see their daughter getting plowed by the man she'd bound herself to for their sakes. They'd sold me. I had no power. And that let me give myself over to Anton.

  His arms snaked around me, warm and hard, like hot iron bands, and his rough fingers found first my breast and then my clit. With a hard, insistent rhythm, he stroked my clit, pinched and kneaded my breast, and I squirmed, my body quivering around the cock buried inside me. I wanted to make him come.

  With superhuman effort, I reached back and looped an arm around his neck, gripping the back of the heavy iron chair. Using him as my anchor, I lifted my hips, letting his cock slide out of me, almost to complete retreat, then allowed my legs relax. Gravity pulled me back down, and he filled me again, almost painfully. I moaned with each thrust, and his magical fingers stroked and circled my clit. I felt his chest rumble—a grunt, a groan—and his fingers picked up the pace.

  "Come for me," he commanded, but his voice was strained, fraying at the edges, and I knew he was losing it.

  I knew I shouldn't do it. I knew he would only take control back harder and more ruthlessly than before. And yet I couldn't help myself.

  "Make me," I said.

  And then he wrapped his arms around me and held me fast as he thrust upwards, again and again, filling me up to bursting, and I shrieked into the cold night air, the lights of the city blurring around me. I couldn't tell if it was pain or pleasure he was making me feel, but I wanted it. I wanted all of it.

  "Fuck!" I cried. "Fuck me!"

  He made a strangled cry behind me, and pistoned into me harder, his fingers on my clit clumsy and fumbling, but they were enough. They were enough.

  "Anton!"

  His name left my lips, and I came again, and this time he followed me, his hips jerking and pausing in their frantic pounding, and then I felt his thick, hot cum pumping into me, filling me up.

  I was his.

  *

  My defiance cost me.

  He took me up to his room, and the rest of the night he fucked me, hard and long. Each time I drifted into sleep I was awoken again by his hands on me, twisting the sheets around my arms. Face down, ass up, he fucked me, seeming not to care if I came or not, but of course I did. It was impossible for me not to, not with him possessing me, utterly and completely. My muscles ached, my pussy burned, but each time he emptied his seed into me I came, milking him dry.

  At last the skylight above us lightened, and he slept.

  Exhausted, I stared at the sun streaking over the sky. A cold morning dawning. I hadn't slept but in snatches between fuck sessions. Anton loved to tie
me up, and I knew there was more to his lust than I had seen because just tying me up didn't seem to satisfy him. There was more he wanted to do, and though it scared me to think of, I was also intensely curious. What new depravities did he want to unleash?

  And just how could I tell him I wanted them?

  At seven thirty I rolled out of bed, spent and shaking. My legs barely held me as I made my way into the bathroom and cranked the shower on. When it was good and hot, I got in.

  Hot water poured over me, washing away the grime of sweat. Too tired to stand, I sat on the floor and opened my legs.

  Anton's cum had dried, sticky, on the insides of my thighs, but inside my pussy it was still collected. Tentatively I dipped a finger inside, felt the aching aftermath of our fucking, and shuddered with pain and pleasure.

  Gently, I cleaned myself. My pussy was red and raw, and I knew I wasn't going to walk right all day. Lathering my whole body with soap I washed the night away and tried to rally.

  When at last I was clean, I dragged myself out of the shower stall and wrapped myself in one of the huge towels hanging on the wall. Why did Anton have two towels? One for his body and one for his ego? The world would never know. I let the soft cloth drag over my hypersensitive skin, then wrapped it around my hair. Moving out of the bathroom I saw Anton still asleep in his bed. I crossed the cold floor and looked down at him.

  He slept like a baby. His face, so controlled in waking life, became slack, relaxed in repose. Where his beautiful face seemed magnetic when animated, I found it alluring when asleep. I longed to reach out and brush away the dark lock of hair that had fallen against his forehead. I wanted to lean down and kiss him awake, but I didn't. He was still untouchable. And besides, there was no telling what kind of punishment he'd mete out for touching him without his conscious knowledge. The rules were different for me.

  With a resigned sigh, I hobbled over to the closet and opened it. Inside hung an array of fine, extremely expensive clothes. I grabbed a shirt from its hanger and put it on. At least it covered my naked body. Bending down, I grabbed my little black dress from where it had pooled on the floor and tiptoed out of the room, down the hall, and to the stairs.

  The steps creaked under my weight as I made my way down them, but no one in the house was up yet except me. Padding across cold floors, I made my way to the room I had chosen and shut the door behind me.

  Once inside, I stood, unsure what to do. Lost. Anton had somehow unmoored me. Normally I'd know exactly what to do. It wouldn't always be the correct thing to do—many times my decisions involved smoking weed or texting old boyfriends—but at least I knew what I wanted to do. Now, standing naked but for a dress shirt and a towel on my head, I stared at the boxes holding my life and wondered what to do about such a pitiful bounty.

  This was it. My whole life, except for my art, was here. My sculpting tools were all still at my old apartment, and I wished, suddenly, that I had asked for them to be brought here. Nothing would have made me feel better than to plunge my hands into some water and grab a block of clay and just fucking go for it. Make a horse, or a wolf, or a goat. Something lithe and beautiful. My hands would know what to do, if only I could lay them on some clay.

  But all that shit was across town, and I was stuck here, cut off almost completely from the life I had lived a scant week before.

  ...Well, no sense standing around catching a cold about it.

  I combed through the boxes, each labeled well, especially since my apartment had been a total disaster area when the movers had showed up, and found several boxes of clothes. Ripping them open, I dug through them until I found something warm enough to wear and got dressed. Just a sweater, slim jeans, and knock-off Ugg boots, but warm enough and I started to feel better. Plus having clothes strewn all over the guest bed I had claimed made the place feel a bit more like home already. I should just open all the boxes and dump everything out, I thought. It seemed like a really good idea. I mean, I'd only had about thirty minutes of sleep between getting my brains fucked out, but it would make me feel better. I put a hand on a box.

  My door opened and I jumped about a foot in the air, stifling a shriek. Whirling around, I expected to see Anton there, but instead my father stood in the doorway.

  Ugh. Great. Just who I didn't want to see.

  "What do you want?" I snapped. "I'm busy."

  "Felicia," he said, then stopped, clearly uncomfortable and not sure what to say. I cocked a hip and jammed a fist into it, waiting for him to continue. Finally he sighed. "I was just coming to check up on you."

  "Yeah?" I said. "Well, it's a little late for that. I'm not your responsibility any more. You sold me off."

  "Oh god, don't say it like that..."

  I threw my hands in the air, a gesture I suddenly remembered my mother employing to distraction last night, and turned it into running my hands through my damp hair. "Well, what do you want me to say?"

  He shook his head, glancing around at the boxes filling my room. "I don't know," he said. "

  I almost told him I didn't hate him, but I did. So I stayed silent.

  Finally he blew a stream of air through his teeth. "Your mother wants to go shopping today to start getting your wedding in order."

  Uuuuugh. I already had a wedding. I seriously did not need another one, and I really didn't feel like going shopping with my mother. Whenever I wondered why she stayed with my father despite the fact that he cheated on her with a new girl every week, I just had to go shopping with her to remember. She was addicted to plastic.

  "You think she's going to feel well enough to do that?" I asked.

  He looked at me blankly for a second, then seemed to remember that she was sick. "Oh, I'm sure she will," he said. "She always feels well enough to spend money."

  That was pretty rich coming from a guy who blew all his credit, capital, and concrete assets on bad business ventures and had to sell his own daughter into modern-day sexual-slavery to save his own ass, but I stayed silent. He was never going to change, and I didn't need to fight with him. Besides, as much as I hated to admit it, things could have gone a lot worse than they had. I liked Anton. And I didn't really mind being married to him so much. There were worse things to be.

  "I guess I'd better get some coffee started," I said.

  He moved aside for me and I brushed past him and descended the stairs.

  *

  I found ten texts and two voicemails from Sadie warning me of my parents' impending arrival. Clearly I needed to glue my phone to my forehead so I didn't miss anything important.

  I wanted to kick myself. I should have been able to warn Anton. We could have turned off all the lights and hid behind the couch and pretended we weren't at home. As it was, my mother whirled into the breakfast nook at nine, in high dudgeon. Anton had left the house half an hour earlier, pausing only to give me a cursory, distant kiss on the forehead. He didn't even look me in the eye before he drifted out the front door. My mother thought it rude of him to leave without greeting his houseguests.

  "You are kind of unexpected," I told her. "He has things to do that don't involve you. Or me. Like running a financial empire."

  "Felicia," my mother said, plopping herself down in the chair across from mine at the breakfast table, "why on earth did you marry a rich man? You are never going to be the first the first thing in his life. He is always going to be a businessman first and a husband second. Sometimes third or fourth! What were you thinking?"

  I wanted to strangle her. Or hug her. I couldn't tell which.

  "I was thinking, wow, he's really hot and rich and wants to marry me, let's do this," I said, which was kind of half the truth. He was really hot. I loved fucking him. On the other hand, now that I had some coffee in me and the damage from last night was becoming apparent, I hoped I had satsified him for at least a week. My pussy was raw and aching, and I kept shifting uncomfortably in my chair.

  My mother, thankfully, didn't seem to notice. "Well, we are going to his office and retrieving
him after I've had breakfast."

  I blinked at her. "What?"

  "We're going to go pick out wedding cakes and inivitations today. And we'll need to secure a venue." She sighed, as though this were a great burden and not something she had decided to do without even asking me. "It's going to be a lot of work. You'll both need to pick a wedding date, too."

  I stared. She sipped her coffee and sighed. "Why do we have to do it this morning?" I asked her. "Can't it wait? Anton and I haven't even been married for forty-eight hours yet. Can't we... you know, ease into it?"

  "That is not my problem," my mother told me. "My problem is your wedding, and I will not sit idly by while your husband blows you off like mine did."

  Not for the first time, I thought that there was probably a reason my father blew her off, but I kept my mouth shut. Nothing was a sorer subject with my mother. She could talk about how terrible a husband my father was for hours on end if she really wanted to—my therapist had told me that it was highly inappropriate that she had done just that to me on several occasions—but the second someone on the outside of their relationship said anything she would burst into tears. It was maddening.

  "He's not blowing me off," I said. "Believe me, he pays me plenty of attention."

  She gave me a cool eye. "Not enough attention to give you a proper wedding," she said. "If he truly cared about you, he would have wanted to meet your family, given you two a proper start in life."

  He doesn't care about me, I thought. He doesn't want to care about me. He just wants a companion. A roommate fuckbuddy. It didn't really matter how much he liked to fuck me if he didn't actually like me, did it? And I had missed out on the wedding of my dreams. Which wasn't much, but I still wanted that princess dress.

  And if he was angry with us barging in? Then maybe he'd talk some sense into my mother. If he could get my mother out of this absolutely insane, irritating obsession with seeing me married in a ceremony, it would be worth it to bug him this morning. Ten minutes of hassle and a possible spanking versus two months of stress and parental hovering? I couldn't imagine Anton putting up with that sort of shit. I was a slave to my family, and he was the opposite. Maybe I could get something out of this marriage besides a sore cooch.