Serving the Billionaire (8 page)

I was in my spot by the fireplace when the first of Mr. Sutton’s guests arrived.

They all glanced at me as they came in, but then seemed to immediately dismiss me as uninteresting. That was fine; I wasn’t supposed to be interesting. None of these were the men who’d seen me topless a few nights before, and in my demure skirt and blouse, I probably looked like the kind of generic waitress they were well accustomed to ignoring. And then the dancers came in and started wiggling around in their practiced way, and then I was
definitely
not interesting.

Mr. Sutton finally returned, escorting an older, silver-haired gentleman. They were deep in conversation, and stood to one side instead of joining the others on the sofas. At first, Mr. Sutton seemed to be totally engrossed in whatever he was saying to the other man, but then I noticed that he started giving me quick glances over the man’s shoulder, his eyes meeting mine and then darting away again, and then returning, like he couldn’t keep his attention on his conversation.

I watched as he slid his right hand into his pocket, and curled my hand around the mantle, bracing myself for what I knew would come next.

Sure enough, I felt the vibrator start humming between my thighs. It didn’t escalate into the stronger buzzing I’d felt before, and I relaxed a little. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

One of the clients gestured to me, and I went over to him and leaned down. “A martini, please,” he said. “Very dry.”

“Right away,” I murmured. I walked out of the room and onto the main floor of the club, feeling the vibrator thrum between my thighs. It wasn’t getting any stronger, but it also wasn’t stopping. One of the other waitresses asked me about my plans for the weekend, and I had to forcibly focus my attention on her words before I was able to answer.

Maybe this
would
be pretty bad.

I went back to room 4 and delivered the martini to the man who’d ordered it. My pussy was swollen and tender from the steady humming, and I was wobbly as a new colt as I returned to my place by the fire. I wanted it to stop, or else for it to get stronger so that I could just get it over with. Although I had a feeling that Mr. Sutton wouldn’t stop even after I came.

I tried to focus on my breathing instead of on the liquid heat building between my legs. It wasn’t easy. Mr. Sutton was still deep in conversation with the same man, and this time he didn’t look over at me at all. Maybe he’d forgotten about what he was doing to me.

But then the vibrations stopped as suddenly as they’d started. I exhaled slowly, relieved. I wasn’t sure how much longer I would have been able to last.

As I stood there, breathing deeply to slow my heart rate, Mr. Sutton patted the man’s shoulder a few times and turned away from him. I watched as he went over to the sofas and took a seat beside one of the other guests. He poured himself a generous serving of whiskey and took a sip. Then he looked at me, and the heat in his eyes was like a punch to my gut. He
wanted
me, and he didn’t care who knew it.

I wasn’t going to make it out of this alive.

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic. But just a little.

Mr. Sutton gestured to me, and I went over to him. His right hand was in his pocket. That wasn’t a good sign. I leaned down to hear what he wanted. “Another bottle of Scotch,” he said, and as he said
bottle
, I felt the vibrator start up again.

I swallowed hard. “Right away,” I said, my voice cracking. How could he expect me to go out to the bar when the vibrator was buzzing away? I was going to trip and fall flat on my face, and Germaine would see and fire me. Or I would stumble into one of the customers and make him spill his drink. Or I was going to come in the middle of the room and embarrass myself completely.

I went back out to the bar. This time, I had to lean against the edge for support while I waited for the bartender to get the bottle off the top shelf. My hands shook slightly. My swollen clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The vibrator stuttered and then buzzed slightly faster, and my mouth fell open on a silent moan.

The bartender slid the bottle across the counter to me. “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just... warm in here.”

He gave me an odd look, but turned away. I took the bottle and fled.

I really didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night.

Mr. Sutton was watching as I came through the door, and he motioned me over. I clutched the bottle, terrified that I would drop it. As I approached, he set his glass on the table and said, “A refill, please.”

I crouched and fumbled open the bottle. My hands felt like they were wrapped in cotton; my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My underpants were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I were making a mess of my tights as well. The fabric of my bra scraped against my tender nipples. And Mr. Sutton just sat there and watched me try to fight the unbearable pleasure he was inflicting on me.

Carefully, so carefully, I lifted the bottle and poured out a measure of whiskey.

Somehow I managed not to spill any.

Just as I set the bottle back on the table, the vibration increased yet again, and I dropped the cap. It fell to the table and bounced onto the floor. All of the guests turned to look at me.

I didn’t know what I looked like, but I could imagine: eyes too bright, face pink, mouth open, panting. I probably looked like I’d just been fucked. I looked away from the curious gazes and went down onto my knees to fish the cap out from where it had rolled beneath the sofa.

“She isn’t ordinarily so clumsy,” I heard Mr. Sutton say, and humiliation brought a fresh wave of heat to my face. I didn’t know why he would say something like that.

The guests chuckled. I retrieved the cap and sat up, hair threatening to escape from the tight bun I’d twisted it into. Mr. Sutton was looking at me, face unreadable.

“I’m sorry I dropped the cap,” I said quietly.

He leaned close enough to brush his lips against my ear. “I love watching you lose control,” he murmured.

I couldn’t think. I screwed the cap back onto the bottle.

He sat back and slid his hand into his pocket. I held my breath. Was he going to turn it off, or make the vibrations even stronger?

I didn’t think I could take any more.

But instead of forcing me to come like that, kneeling there on the floor with his guests arranged around me, he turned the vibrator off.

Greatly relieved, I climbed to my feet and went back to the fireplace.

He tormented me like that all evening: switching the vibrator on and off at erratic intervals, and watching me as I clung to the mantle and tried not to moan out loud. I was a shaking, oversensitive mess, but he always managed to turn off the vibrator just before I came. He brought me to the edge again and again, and then yanked me back from the precipice right before I was about to go over.

By the end, I was ready to beg him to let me come.

The party ended earlier than they usually did. One of the guests, the silver-haired gentleman, glanced down at his watch around 10, patted the curvy ass of the dancer who was sitting in his lap, and announced that it was time for him to go home. That seemed to be everyone else’s cue to leave as well, because they all gathered their things and were gone within fifteen minutes.

That left me alone in the room with Mr. Sutton.

He hadn’t moved; he was still sitting on the sofa, one hand loosely curled around his whiskey glass. As soon as the final guest left and the door shut behind him, Mr. Sutton turned to me and said, “Come here.”

I walked over to him, unsteady on my feet. As I approached, he uncrossed his legs and spread his thighs apart, showing me his erection.

I had never met a man who was so blatant in and comfortable with his sexuality. I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond to him. Giggle? Look away? Sink to my knees and unzip his pants?

That last option was probably the most appealing, but I didn’t think I would ever be bold enough to actually do it.

I came near the sofa and stopped. He looked up at me and placed one hand on the cushion beside him. “Sit,” he said.

I sat. Or, really, I collapsed onto the sofa. I’d been standing for most of the night, and my legs wouldn’t hold me anymore.

To my surprise, Mr. Sutton lifted one arm and curled it around my shoulders. I turned my head and looked at him. He looked back, his eyes darker in the dim light than their usual piercing blue. His thumb moved back and forth along my shoulder, caressing, and I shivered and relaxed against him.

“How wet is your pussy right now?” he asked me.

I turned my head to face the wall, unwilling to let him see my face. I didn’t want to answer, but I knew he wouldn’t let me dodge the question. “It’s wet,” I said.

He chuckled. I heard fabric rustle, and then I felt the vibrator start buzzing again.

“Oh God,” I said involuntarily. The buzzing started out pretty weak, but Mr. Sutton quickly adjusted it so that the vibrations were steady and powerful. I was already so sensitive from being teased all evening that I squirmed on the sofa, trying to escape the sensation but unable to. The vibrator rode against my clit just right, exactly where I needed it, but too strong, too overwhelming.

“It’s too much,” I whimpered, and he eased it down slightly, enough to take the vibrations from uncomfortable to oh-god-right-there. I heard myself moan, and I let my head fall back against the back of the couch.

“That’s right,” he said. I knew I was biting my lip and tossing my head back and forth, but I couldn’t stop myself. The buzzing felt too incredible for me to care about anything except the tension growing in my lower belly and the melting, liquid pleasure between my legs.

I felt his free hand on my hip, and his thumb still moving on my shoulder, and the vibrator buzzing between my thighs, making them quiver. I was so close. I turned my face away from him, sure that I looked ridiculous, and he bent his head and moved his lips along my jaw.

“You’re going to come for me now,” he said, mouth moving against my skin.

I was powerless to refuse a direct order.

I came hard, back arching, toes curling inside my shoes. It seemed to go on and on, waves of pleasure rolling through me. I couldn’t do anything but lean against Mr. Sutton’s warm body and let it wash through me like the sea.

“Good girl,” Mr. Sutton said. I felt him stroking my hair.

I opened my eyes. Mr. Sutton was watching me, smiling slightly.

Mr. Sutton
. I gave up: I couldn’t think of him that way anymore, not when he was looking at me like that, like I was something
special
. Like there was nowhere he would rather be. I couldn’t maintain the artificial distance of
Mr. Sutton
. He was just
Carter
.

God, I was so screwed.

“Regan,” he said. I shivered. I loved how he said my name. “It’s still early. Come home with me. I want to see you in my bed.”

Later, I would think of all the snappy responses I should have made.
How much are you going to pay me?
I should have asked, or
I don’t go home with strange men
.

But I wasn’t that quick on my feet. Instead I just looked at him and said, “Okay.”

T
he cold air hit me like a frigid wall as I followed Carter out of the club. The neighborhood was always deserted at this time of night, and my hand automatically slid into my purse to curl around my can of mace. New York was pretty safe, but you never knew.

But I probably didn’t have to worry, with Carter there. I expected him to usher me into a sleek black town car, but instead he said, “My apartment is five blocks from here. Can you walk?”

“Of course,” I said, a little offended. Hadn’t he seen me walking around the club all evening? A few blocks in my heels wouldn’t kill me.

“Good,” he said. “Walking will be faster than calling my driver. I can’t wait that long to get you alone.”

I readjusted my scarf and pretended that I was only shivering from the cold.

Carter headed north, and I hurried to follow. Pretty soon, I was regretting my bravado. He was tall, and he walked quickly; I would have had a hard time keeping up with him even in my favorite shit-kicking boots, and in heels, it was basically impossible. And it was
cold
, an icy wind blowing off the Hudson. I wished he’d called his driver after all.

He glanced back and must have seen that I was struggling, because he immediately slowed his pace. “It’s not far now,” he said. “Only a few more blocks.”

“Sure,” I said. Inwardly, I was wondering what kind of billionaire
walked
places. I thought they took limos everywhere.

We traveled the remaining blocks in silence. Carter had his hands tucked in his coat pockets and was staring intently at the sidewalk. It was like he’d already forgotten I was there, and I was afraid to say anything and break the spell, remind him of how utterly insignificant I was. If I just kept my mouth shut, maybe he would forget. I wasn’t ready for the night to be over.

“Here we are,” he said after a few minutes, and I looked up. We were at the base of a modern glass skyscraper—the sort of building that I passed by every day, and wondered who had enough money to live there. I’d always wanted to go inside and see how the other half lived.

Now I had my chance. “You live here?” I asked. It was a stupid question, but the words spilled out of me before I could stop them. I swallowed and tried again. “I mean, I thought all billionaires lived overlooking Central Park.”

He chuckled. “Many of them do. That’s partly why I live here.” He ushered me into the lobby, an open space paneled in light wood, warmly lit and welcoming. He whisked me past the security guard and into the elevator, already waiting for us with open doors.

We went in. The doors slid shut. He took a step toward me, and another, and then he was pushing me up against the side of the elevator car and kissing me.

I clutched his coat in both hands and kissed him back. We hadn’t kissed before, and it struck me as somehow hilarious that he’d seen me topless, and made me come, and we hadn’t even kissed.