[Invitation to Eden 24.0] How to Tempt a Tycoon (15 page)

“You’re not trading any cards?”

“No.”

Fuck.

I discard three cards, because I’ve got a pair now and I’m hoping for another pair or three of a kind.

No such luck.

“Show me your cards.”

“A pair of tens.” I lay them down.

He lays his. He’s got a royal flush. 

I stare at his cards, open-mouthed. “You cheated.” I cross my arms over my breasts. “There’s no way you could have dealt yourself that hand unless you cheated.”

“I didn’t cheat. It was luck of the draw, which is just another word for fate.”

He stands in front of me and sweeps my body with his penetrating, smug gaze. “I’ll give you a choice, and it’s the last one you have tonight. You can take those panties off here or at the club.”

“What club?”

He points, to the far wall. There’s a sign on a door I hadn’t noticed that reads,
Club Sin,
all done in red neon with devil horns on the C and N. “I’ve booked a room.”

“At the BDSM club?”

He touches my cheek, in that way I’m becoming much too accustomed to, and says quietly, “You wanted to know what I was like before. Tonight is your chance to meet the old me.” His expression turns serious. “Are you sure that’s what you want?”

I nod, but not all the way. I think it’s what I want, but how can I know for sure until I meet him.

“Good.” In a flash, his whole persona changes. His face becomes grim, his eyes darken and his chest expands. “Then we will fuck the way I like it. Do you understand?”

He’s always given off a dominant air, but right now, my God, it’s like a switch flicked and Christophe is a completely different man. He’s the arrogant playboy I pictured him to be when I first met him in Monte Carlo. He’s the entitled billionaire who gets everything he wants. Yes, we’re playing a game but I’m not sure I like the way this game is going. This isn’t what I had planned. I was going to seduce him, not submit to him.

And that’s exactly what I tell him. “I’m not going to submit to you, if that’s what you think.”

“Yes, you are.” He steps closer, making me look up at him.

“I’ll give you what you want, only when
I
want it.”

He does the same thing he did in Monte Carlo, fitting his trousered leg between mine, but this time he moves it, grinding up between my thighs, which feels fucking marvelous, by the way. Taking hold of my wrists, he pulls my arms from my breasts. “I know what you want better than you do.”

“No you don’t.”

“I do.” He pulls me closer. “Your pupils are dilated.” He fingers my wrist. “Your pulse is erratic and there’s heat emanating off your skin.” He leans close to my face. “Your breath is coming fast, like you find it hard to breathe.” He leans down as if to kiss me and I go to move because I’m not sure I want to kiss this Christophe. Dropping his head, he inhales deeply. “And, I can smell your pussy.” Standing straight, he looks down at me, his words clipped and calculated.  “You’re wet for me. Your clit is throbbing. You’re hoping I’ll slide my hand up your thigh and brush my fingers against you.”

I jerk out of his grasp. “That’s not true.” I lie because his all-knowing commentary is maddening not only because of his superior tone but because of how accurate it is.

He very lightly trails a finger down my arm. I don’t know how something so gentle can light such a fire beneath my skin.

“This is what you want, Tessa. You like being dominated. You’re so in control of your life. You long to give it up. Even if only for a short time.”

Who is this Christophe? I can’t decide if I like him or not. Right now, I’m thinking not.

“You want to be dominated by me. Let me. I know exactly what you need and I’m going to give it to you.” His hand moves to my lower back.

“You barely know me.” Are we playing a game or is this real? I can’t tell anymore.

“I know you much better than you think.”

It’s the game. Surely. He’s just really good at playing the part of the dominant male. Well, maybe he’s come across plenty of women who were willing to please him in the past. That’s not me. I lift my chin. “I’m not a possession.”

“Good. I don’t need any more possessions.”

I swallow, having no answer to that.

“Now, do as you’re told. Remove your panties here or there.” He motions toward the door. “It’s up to you what you do, but know it’s the last choice I’m allowing you to make tonight.”

I
’m in a quandary. This is my game. My bet. I started this and now I’ve got to finish it. He warned me he was going to be the ‘old Christophe’ and I basically told him to bring it. So now what?

So now I find myself standing just outside the door to a private room in
Club Sin
, wondering what the hell I’m going to find inside. I recall some of the things Christophe said about his life before the mystery woman came into it, how he always wanted more, and basically did whatever he wanted to do with women.

Shit. What does he think he’s going to do with me tonight? How kinky is he...was he?

“Open the door, Tessa.”

So fucking bossy. Yet, I obey. Dammit! What else am I supposed to do? This was my idea after all.

Inside, the room is lit by candles and there’s a lingering scent of sandalwood. I look for the typical dominant/submissive accoutrements; the St. Andrew’s Cross, a spanking bench, a wall of toys, whips, floggers, cat-o-nine tails, crops...

There’s nothing except a strange chair situated in the middle of the room.

“Not what you expected?”

“No.”

“Tell me what you thought you’d find.”

“I thought you’d be into bondage.” I walk up to the chair, feeling the supple, silky leather of it, running my hand along the top of the interesting S-shaped lounge chair. “You know, restraints, toys, that kind of thing.”

“I was.” He notices my hand lingering on the supple leather. “But I progressed into other avenues.”

“Like?”

He comes to stand beside me, saying softly, “Like the best sorts of restraints are those of the mind.”

I shiver from his words but also from the sound of him breathing deeply beside me as if he’s fighting a demon in his chest.

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “What’s with the chair?” I ask, petting the leather.

“It’s a Kama Sutra chair.”

Yes. The name fits, I can already picture various ways the chair can be used.

“It’s all I require.” After a long exhale, he says. “And you’re going to bend over it.”

I glance back. “You’re not wasting time, are you?”

He doesn’t answer me, he simply restates himself. “Bend.”

Fuck. Christophe is unsettling me. I can’t read him right now. I can’t tell if he’s serious or joking, real or fake. Is this a game or is this something else?

He wraps a hand around my neck, not too tight, but firmly enough to push me down over the top of the chair. It’s a perfect fit for my stomach and a perfect angle for my chest, leaving my ass completely exposed.

“You will do as I say.”

“Don’t we need a word? Like a safe word?”

“No. Not for what I have in mind.”

I arch my back in order to look behind me. “I think we should.”

“I’m going to make you come and then I’m going to fuck you. Do you need a safe word for that?”

Holy shit! Why the hell does his cold, arrogant, fucking bossy demeanor turn me on so much? What is it about this kind of play that gets my juices going? I’m a modern woman. Noelle, the cute—albeit tricky—journalist, even wrote about me in those terms. Yet, with certain men I like being told what to do. God help me. I like the way Christophe grabbed my neck. My pussy is still throbbing from the way he pushed me over the back of the chair, leaving me vulnerable and at his mercy.

Is that a harkening back to some Neanderthal origin? Who the fuck knows.

“I asked you a question.”

I shake my head. No, I do not have a problem with that, dammit!

“Good.” Christophe moves up behind me. I shudder against the chair as he twists the back of my panties in his fist. “Now. I’m going to make you come using these.”

I don’t know what that means, not until he tugs up on the back, reaches around to the front and pulls there, sawing my panties back and forth across my wet pussy, abrading my clit with delicious friction.

“You like it hard.”

“Yes.”

He increases the rate of movement. “And fast.”

“Oh God, yes.”

He’s pulling on my panties so hard that he’s lifting me to my toes, yet the feeling is so startlingly good, I’m gasping and well on my way to orgasm.

“God, you’re wet. You like this.”

“Mmm.” I clench the side of the chair, overcome by the sensation, the feeling like it’s almost too much too soon, yet not quite enough.

“On a scale of one to ten, where ten is an orgasm, where are you?”

“Eight.”

“Fuck, that’s fast.” He grunts and with one more tug, he buries the crotch of my panties into me and I cry out. Not because I’ve come but because it’s shockingly good.

“You’re going to come for me.” His voice is deep, even and melodic. “I’m going to count to ten and when I get to ten, your panties will rip and you will come.”

Shit. I have no idea what he’s doing, what he’s saying. All I can do is feel the marvelous friction between my legs, my panties biting into me, fucking me.

“One.”

It’s all good. So fucking good.

“Two.”

I wriggle around, working my clit into the material.

“Three, four, five.”

Wonderful. So, so wonderful. And then suddenly he’s at number six and I’m squealing and rocking against the leather of the chair.

“Seven.”

My tummy shudders, my thighs clench and I pulse my ass in the air.

“Eight.”

My feet leave the ground and I’m chanting the ‘fuck’ chant.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck...

“Nine...”

Sweet pain grips me from my insides, clawing to get out. Needing release. Needing freedom. Needing, needing, needing...

I don’t hear the number ten. What I hear—and feel—is the
rip!
of my panties and the room detonates around me. Someone is crying out. I know it’s me and yet it sounds like it’s coming from someone else.

I barely have time to come down from the heights of orgasm when I feel Christophe’s hand on my ass, spreading me wide.

His voice—still so fucking calm—whispers near my ear. “I’m wearing a condom and I’m going to fuck you now.”

“Yes,” I cry. “Yes please. Do it now.”

The chair is the perfect height for him to drill me from behind and that’s what he does. One sure, forceful thrust and he’s embedded while my pussy continues to spasm in ecstasy.  He withdraws and plunges in long, easy strokes. In, out, in, out...

So good, but...

I look blindly over my shoulder. “Faster. Harder.”

“No.” He stops, pulls out and moves around to the front of the chair, patting the seat. “Come sit here.”

I slither down from where I’m bent and do a very ungraceful maneuver so that I’m sitting in the center of the chair.

“Spread your legs.”

Like my legs are puppets on strings, they are pulled apart by his puppet-master words.

“Touch yourself. Show me how you like it. When I think you’re ready, I’ll tell you when to come.”

I
s there any more pleasurable way to wake up than having someone caressing you out of sleep? That’s exactly how I wake, with Christophe propped on his elbow gently touching my jaw, my collarbones, my shoulders and sides. There is nothing left of the dominant, cold Christophe this morning, the one who made me do his bidding, bringing me to orgasm over and over again with little more than his words and his voice. He barely penetrated me. Barely touched me.  Did he even enjoy himself last night? It was hard to tell.

The man who is watching me now is tender, strong and considerate, and I have one overwhelming urge...to make love
my
way.

I touch his face. God, I love a morning beard. Love running my fingers over the sheer masculine roughness, observing how the stubble travels from his throat up to his jaw and cheek leaving smooth skin on his cheekbones.

His eyelids flicker in pleasure as I caress him.

“You didn’t come last night,” I say absently.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t want to.”

I touch some more, letting my fingers do the walking, down his throat, his chest, his abdomen. Hello! The man is sporting a generous erection and it doesn’t take much stroking for him to become rock hard.

“I’d like to do something about that.”

“I don’t need to come. It’s better if I don’t.”

“That’s plain craziness talking.” My words are slow and slurred from sleep. With a stretch and a yawn, I wriggle my way down beneath the covers.

“Tessa?”

His voice is muffled so I don’t bother to respond. Instead I run my hands along his sculpted thighs until they meet in the middle.

Lovely.

“Tessa.” He flips back the covers, which is fine because I’m too warm anyway.

After a hazy glance up at him, I lick him, flicking my tongue around and around his head like he’s a dripping ice cream cone on a hot summer day.

“Fuck.”

God, I love the way that word sounds. A tortured ‘fuck’ with a French accent is incredibly sexy. So of course I want to hear it again. I wet my lips and relax into a loose pucker, swishing the head of his cock back and forth across my juicy mouth.

“Fuck...fuck...fuck.”

Exactly. It’s his turn to sing the ‘fuck’ chant.

After the third ‘fuck’, I suck him in and he responds by twisting my hair in his grasp. He doesn’t guide my head or force me to me move, he just holds on, like my hair’s reins and I’m an unbroken filly.

“Tess, you need to stop.”

“Not until you come.” I go down on him again, taking him deep. Up and down until his cock spasms in my mouth. I know he’s going to come by the way he cries out, but amazingly, he doesn’t.

With a firm tug on my hair, he pulls himself out of my mouth. “No more.”

“Why?” I wipe my lips. “You like it.”