Play With Me (7 page)

Sex was so much more fun when anticipation was added to the mix.

Jean modeled one outfit after another. At first, Tatiana tried to be tactful, but after her second glass of champagne, she felt no compunction about sending the model off with a wrinkled nose.
This is kinda fun.

While Jean was donning the final dress, Cher spoke to Katya, who was putting the finishing touches on Tatiana’s toenails. “Call down to the shop and tell them to send up another rack of dresses. These are no good.” 

Tatiana grimaced. “Oh, no. No. I'll pick one of them.”

“Don't feel obligated. I agree, none of these would look right on you.” 

Jean opened the bedroom door and came out to the living room, a small grin on her face. “I think you’ll like this one. I should have put it on first.” 

Tatiana inhaled.
Oh my, yes.

The dress was her favorite color, green. It was made of some floaty kind of chiffon, and was short, just covering the model’s ass and hitting the tops of her thighs. The skirt consisted of layers of vertical strips that flirted with her skin. The bodice was a halter, and it cupped the model’s small breasts, pushing them high. She turned around, and Tatiana had to restrain herself from drooling over the bare expanse of back that was revealed. 

“This one,” she said definitively. 

“Absolutely,” Cher agreed. She checked her watch. “We’ll help you dress and then bid you good night. Mr. Caine wanted you ready by six for dinner.”

Dinner, huh? 

Tatiana glanced at the model, imagining the dress on her own body. Well. He was certainly going to eat her up. And she would absolutely let him. 

Chapter Six

Wyatt paused outside the door of his suite, hesitation and a foreign emotion making him pause. She was inside.
She
was inside his home. 

Déjà vu swamped him. They’d done this before. Back then, he’d come home to his apartment, his muscles and arms aching, and she’d be waiting for him. Oftentimes studying. Occasionally, she’d brought him some dinner, but really, all he’d ever wanted to nibble on was her. 

He shook his head hard, trying to dislodge those memories.
Do not mix up tonight with the past.
This was different. Like an anonymous one-night stand. Just because he’d never had one of those before didn’t mean he didn’t know their rules. 

He’d been so good lately, hadn't he? Guarding his image as an upscale businessman, someone who could run a discreet den of sin. People handed him their money and their secrets, trusted him. He had wealth, power, prestige. Respect tinged with a small amount of fear. What more could a man want? 

Nothing. Except maybe a night between the thighs of the woman waiting inside his home. 

He pressed his hand against the pad next to the door. The door beeped and admitted him. 

He stepped inside, opening his mouth to call out something dry and witty. But then he saw her. 

Fuck it all. 

He was lightheaded. That’s what happened when every single drop of blood in your brain raced to your cock. 

It was dim inside the suite—she hadn’t turned the lights on, and the sun was setting. She stood with her back to him across the expanse of plush white carpet, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows. 

She wore a dress, a scrap of green gauze the same color as her eyes. It skimmed over her round ass and brushed the tops of her thighs. Her back was bare, exposing the long, elegant line of her spine. Her skin was white there, a contrast to her sun-kissed face and arms. 

He knew she was aware he was there. She was posing for him, no fool as to her effect on a man. Her eyes met his in the reflection of the glass. 

Ever so slowly she turned, allowing him to process the rest of her. The skirt was a game of peek-a-boo, a bunch of strips held together by some miracle of modern dress design. The top he could easily rip away and bare the round, succulent breasts that were swelling up from the neckline. 

She licked her lips. Her slick, glossy lips, painted a whore's red. She'd done something to her eyes to make them darker and more mysterious. Her cheeks were flushed, and he wasn't sure if that was makeup or arousal. 

He should compliment her. Tell her she looked stunning, as stunning now as she had a decade ago—no, even more stunning. Ask her if she wanted to order dinner here, or go out somewhere to eat. Feed her body, and then let her feed his hungers. 

Instead, he heard himself speaking, sounding rough and foreign. “Have you changed your mind?” 

She swallowed. Like a helpless puppet, he watched her throat bobbing.  

He wanted to be in that throat when she swallowed. He could live in her mouth. He entertained a stray vision of chaining her to his desk and forcing her to give him blowjobs when he required. It would be a continuous, endless round of fellatio. A barbaric fantasy. But she liked him barbaric. 

“No.” Her voice sounded no better than his, scratchy and thin. 

It was difficult to follow her response, though he had been the one to ask the question. No, she hadn't changed her mind. Excellent. Thank God. 

Oh yeah. He didn’t care anymore if this was a bad idea. 

Time to take control. While he would be happy fucking her any which way he could get her, he wanted them both to get their rocks off. 

He cleared his throat and deliberately made his tone hard, commanding. “Is this the way you learned to greet a man?”

Slowly. Oh so slowly, so he would be left in no doubt that she was obliging him because of her own needs and not his, she sank to her knees. The skirt of her dress billowed out around her creamy thighs. She glanced up at him from beneath her long eyelashes. “Good evening.”

“Good evening...?”

A corner of her mouth kicked up. “Do you like to be called Master now?”

He prowled closer, until he stood directly in front of her. His crotch was at her eye level, leaving her in no doubt of how aroused he was. She may as well have not sucked him off in his office a couple hours ago. 

He felt like he was sixteen again. At least as far as his stamina went. He grabbed hold of her hair, which had been done in a fetching topknot, a look that made him want nothing more than to shove his hands in it and mess it up. Women and their sneaky tricks. 

He pulled hard enough that she winced, and a glint of wariness entered her eyes.

“You will address me with respect,” he said quietly. “You will do everything I say. Or you will be punished. Do you understand me?”

“Yes,” she breathed.

He used his grip on her head to give her a small shake. “Yes, what?”

“Yes...sir.”

“Good.” He released her hair and walked over to the minibar. He didn't precisely need a drink, but he had to occupy his hands before he tore the dress off her and plunged his cock into her tight pussy. He pulled out a bottle of scotch, casually checking the label. “Did you masturbate when you came up here?”

“No, sir.” 

“Why?”

“Because you told me not to.” 

“Will you always do what I tell you?”

She paused. “In the bedroom, you know that I will.”

He had to bite back a smile at the caveat, and poured the scotch. “Undo that halter. I want to see your tits.”

She didn't hesitate, which told him that she needed to come almost as badly as he did. He watched in the mirror behind the bar as she lowered the top, baring her small breasts. They were round and firm, with hard apricot-colored nipples topping them. That gold necklace was still around her throat, the twisted strips of gold falling between her curves. A pagan sacrifice, all for him. Wyatt pressed his cock into the wood of the bar in the hopes of some relief. “Play with them.”

She cradled them from below, as if offering the flesh to him. Slowly, she circled the nipples, letting them grow harder and longer. 

The mirror wasn’t enough for him. He turned to watch her, captivated by the way the sun bathed her from behind. It lit her hair so it glinted like a honey-colored nimbus around her face, burnishing her skin to a golden tone. 

Her head was tilted back, a small frown wrinkling her forehead as she concentrated on the sensations in her body. He liked her focus, but at the same time, wanted to ruffle her up some more. 

“Are you wet?”

“Yes...sir.”

He made a mental note of the hesitation, probably purposeful on her part. If ever he'd seen a woman who craved a good spanking, it was her. “Lift your skirt. Let me see.” 

She kept one hand on her nipple, pressing it hard between her finger and thumb, and dropped the other to her thigh. Kneeling as she was, the fabric of her skirt had separated, the strips between her legs falling down to cover her. He would swear she was in even better shape now than she had been at eighteen. 

Yeah. He was a jerk enough to be a little put out over that. He had spotted some grays in his hair the other day. Was it so much to ask for an ex to not look better than him?

Actually, he decided when she brushed the material of her skirt away so it bared her panties, scratch that. He was very, very happy with her appearance. Very happy indeed. 

“I hope you don't mind, sir,” she whispered. “I know you sent up some lingerie, but I felt more comfortable in my own underwear.”

She also knew him too well, knew that the plain white cotton bikinis would tantalize him far more than the raciest of crotchless lace panties. He took a sip of his drink to give himself something to do, barely tasting the fiery alcohol.

There was a wet spot on her panties that had probably been there since he’d kissed her in his office. “Push them aside.”

Her French-manicure-tipped finger hooked the crotch of her panties and pulled them to the side, revealing a mound with trimmed blonde ringlets and her puffy pink pussy lips.

“Put your finger inside.”

She obeyed, sinking her finger deep and closing her eyes. A gasp left her lips, and she threw her head back, that topknot trembling. She used her other hand to grab her breast and squeeze, hard. 

But, he noted with approval, she didn't do anything with that finger but insert it. He shifted, betraying his excitement. “How does that feel?”

“Good.”

“Stir it around. Get it really wet.”

She pulsed her finger in and out of her pussy a few times and made a small mewling sound.

“Do you want to fuck it?” he asked, as calmly as he could.

“Yes.” 

“Fuck it then. Only five strokes.” 

She pushed her finger in and out exactly five times and then stopped, waiting. Her breathing was so fast her pretty little tits were trembling. “Please. I need more.”

“More strokes?” 

She licked her lips, eyeing his crotch. “More...everything.” 

“Aren’t your fingers thick enough for you?”

“No, sir.”

“Aren’t they long enough for you?”

“No, sir.” 

Every tremulous
sir
out of those lips raked across his balls. Jesus Christ. He drained his glass and placed it on the counter of the bar. He paced back over to where she knelt and stood over her. He tucked a tendril of hair behind her ear, and she shook. 

Good. One day he would teach her to come when he touched her cheek. When he looked at her across the room.

You won't have her one day.

Wyatt paused. Right. Whatever. He’d just have to debauch her thoroughly now. 

He ran his finger down her cheek. “You look like such a good girl, Tatiana. But you're so hungry for cock, aren't you?”

“Your cock. Sir.” 

The flattery was part of the game, but it still pleased him. He grasped her nape. “Take your fingers off your body and unbutton me.” 

She obeyed, eager, and he could smell the scent of her body on her finger where she fumbled with his fly. Once she had his trousers open, she reached inside and pulled out his cock. 

He didn’t know if he’d ever been so engorged. “Get it wet. No.” He stopped her when she moved her head forward, mouth open. “I want to feel your pussy on me.” 

She nodded, her hand sinking between her legs and under her panties before he even finished speaking. The sight of her fingers rubbing her muff would be one of those images he’d replay when he was aching and alone, fucking his own fist. 

He hissed when she wrapped her wet hand around him, the heat from her body scalding him. Christ. He had hoped to drag this out a little longer, but they were both too excited, too turned on. Her hand stole away for more lubrication—and maybe just to tease herself with her touch, though she didn’t linger. If he was capable at all of pretty speech, he’d heap praise on her for the way she was polishing his dick. 

“Get up,” he said instead, guttural. 

Sinuous as a cat, she released him and got to her feet. Her skirt dropped, hiding her pussy from his view. No. No. Nothing should conceal that pussy.  She should walk around always bare and ready for him. Or in nothing but those tight, white, oh-so-easy-to-rip bikinis. 

“Go stand in front of the window.” 

She glanced behind her at the huge glass wall. The sun had sunk, dusk settling over the valley beneath them. “But...” 

“But what?” He didn't have to force the sharpness of his tone. His cock wanted in this woman, damn it. The poor bastard didn’t understand the delay. 

“Couldn't someone see us?”

“Maybe.” He walked over to the wall and hit the light switch, sliding it down so they were bathed in dim light. “Now they can, if anyone's looking.” 

Her eyes narrowed, and for a second he found himself praying she would argue, if only so he could punish her insolence. 

But instead, she turned and walked to the window, her breasts proudly bared and her shoulders straight. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a condom. His pants were bunched beneath his balls, but he liked being fully clothed while she was in disarray. It appealed to him. “Press your breasts against the window, Tatiana. Give everyone a good show now.” 

“I don't want to.”  But she didn't utter their safe word.

“Do you want this cock?” He passed his hand over it, fighting not to grimace. His own fist felt distasteful after the softness of her fingers, the wetness of her mouth. After he fucked her, he’d really be ruined.