Bartered Seduction: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 2 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Ava Lore
have been able to wholeheartedly let him take my burdens from me.
But all it did was make me skittish. My pulse picked up the pace.
"Let's not pretend," he said. Reaching out, he poured me another glass of wine. "You need me, and I want you."
"You don't want me," I said. "You want a woman who needs you."
"To me, those are one and the same at the moment." He lifted the wine and brought it toward me, urging me to drink. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the table.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. "I like to watch you fight it," he said. "Just like I liked watching you finger yourself in my elevator while you thought of me."
Security cameras. Of course.
Mortification swept over me. I stiffened and he leaned in. His lips brushed over my ear. "You are beautiful when you abandon yourself."
"Don't feel so smug," I snapped, even as he moved his lips to the spot just below my earlobe. "I haven't gotten laid in six mo— ooh..."
Anton Waters pressed his hot, soft mouth against my hammering pulse.
I melted under him, my body dissolving into shivers. Panting, I put my hands on the table, gripping the table cloth tightly as I struggled to keep myself from touching him back. My fingers itched to feel him. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.
"Our marriage would be mutually beneficial,” he said, breath ghosting over my skin. “I think you might even enjoy it."
No, no, no, no, no... "No one would enjoy being forced into sex for money,” I ground out.
He smirked against my throat and swept my hair aside. Lightly, gently, he placed lingering kisses down my throat and up over my neck.
"I would never force you. You will always want it."
My heart twisted in my chest. I know, I know, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to admit it.
His breath was hot on the back of my neck. "Do you think I won't be able to please you? Is that it?" he whispered, and I felt his words sink into my skin, into my bones, zipping down my body, electrifying me. I wanted him so badly, but how could I tell him that obtaining orgasms with him was the least of my worries?
His leg pressed against mine. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric between us and I wished I'd been more prudent and worn pants instead of a skirt. His fingers alighted on my thigh and began to trace shivering patterns across my skin. Lips and tongue played with the sensitive nape of my neck, and his hand drifted down my arm, fingertips skimming the outside swell of my breast. Between my thighs, I felt myself grow hot and slick.
"I could make you come right here in this restaurant," he murmured, and his voice was hoarse. "Right in front of everyone. I'll make you scream."
His words set me on fire. "I'd like to see you try," I whispered back. Bravado. My voice shook.
But it wasn't a lie.
Pulling back, he graced me with another one of his faint smiles. "You are the perfect woman for me," he said. "Defiant, with nowhere to run. You'd rather die on your feet than live on your knees." His fingers drifted up my leg, up under my skirt. I swallowed around the lump in my throat.
"I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees, thanks," I told him.
He laughed, then looked shocked that he'd done so. I saw him forcibly recover, but I had no time to bask in my tiny victory. One long, hot finger brushed against the soft mound above my pussy, robbing me of thought.
"You may live on your feet," he whispered, "but I will bend you over and fuck you all the same."
And he slipped under the table.
It was so quick, so unexpected, that I was still staring at the spot where he had been and trying to muster the presence of mind to react when I felt his large, hot hands on my knees.
My god. He was kneeling under the table, hidden by the long table cloth. He was going to— going to—
I wish I could say I put up a fight. But my thighs parted at the slightest pressure from his hands, and I opened to him.
He pushed my skirt up, rearranging the
But all it did was make me skittish. My pulse picked up the pace.
"Let's not pretend," he said. Reaching out, he poured me another glass of wine. "You need me, and I want you."
"You don't want me," I said. "You want a woman who needs you."
"To me, those are one and the same at the moment." He lifted the wine and brought it toward me, urging me to drink. I took the glass from his hand and set it on the table.
From the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. "I like to watch you fight it," he said. "Just like I liked watching you finger yourself in my elevator while you thought of me."
Security cameras. Of course.
Mortification swept over me. I stiffened and he leaned in. His lips brushed over my ear. "You are beautiful when you abandon yourself."
"Don't feel so smug," I snapped, even as he moved his lips to the spot just below my earlobe. "I haven't gotten laid in six mo— ooh..."
Anton Waters pressed his hot, soft mouth against my hammering pulse.
I melted under him, my body dissolving into shivers. Panting, I put my hands on the table, gripping the table cloth tightly as I struggled to keep myself from touching him back. My fingers itched to feel him. My mouth watered at the thought of tasting him.
"Our marriage would be mutually beneficial,” he said, breath ghosting over my skin. “I think you might even enjoy it."
No, no, no, no, no... "No one would enjoy being forced into sex for money,” I ground out.
He smirked against my throat and swept my hair aside. Lightly, gently, he placed lingering kisses down my throat and up over my neck.
"I would never force you. You will always want it."
My heart twisted in my chest. I know, I know, I wanted to say, but I couldn't bring myself to admit it.
His breath was hot on the back of my neck. "Do you think I won't be able to please you? Is that it?" he whispered, and I felt his words sink into my skin, into my bones, zipping down my body, electrifying me. I wanted him so badly, but how could I tell him that obtaining orgasms with him was the least of my worries?
His leg pressed against mine. The heat of his body seeped through the fabric between us and I wished I'd been more prudent and worn pants instead of a skirt. His fingers alighted on my thigh and began to trace shivering patterns across my skin. Lips and tongue played with the sensitive nape of my neck, and his hand drifted down my arm, fingertips skimming the outside swell of my breast. Between my thighs, I felt myself grow hot and slick.
"I could make you come right here in this restaurant," he murmured, and his voice was hoarse. "Right in front of everyone. I'll make you scream."
His words set me on fire. "I'd like to see you try," I whispered back. Bravado. My voice shook.
But it wasn't a lie.
Pulling back, he graced me with another one of his faint smiles. "You are the perfect woman for me," he said. "Defiant, with nowhere to run. You'd rather die on your feet than live on your knees." His fingers drifted up my leg, up under my skirt. I swallowed around the lump in my throat.
"I'd rather live on my feet than die on my knees, thanks," I told him.
He laughed, then looked shocked that he'd done so. I saw him forcibly recover, but I had no time to bask in my tiny victory. One long, hot finger brushed against the soft mound above my pussy, robbing me of thought.
"You may live on your feet," he whispered, "but I will bend you over and fuck you all the same."
And he slipped under the table.
It was so quick, so unexpected, that I was still staring at the spot where he had been and trying to muster the presence of mind to react when I felt his large, hot hands on my knees.
My god. He was kneeling under the table, hidden by the long table cloth. He was going to— going to—
I wish I could say I put up a fight. But my thighs parted at the slightest pressure from his hands, and I opened to him.
He pushed my skirt up, rearranging the
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