Tied to the Billionaire(11)

The admission tumbled out before she could stop herself.

“What? What do you mean?” His growl suggested anger, but his fingers continued their slippery dance among her folds. She fought the waves of release threatening to engulf her, struggling for clarity and control. Men were so possessive. How could she explain that Dmitri was long gone, that now, tonight, she belonged solely to Andrew?

“In Paris—I had a lover, a master—oh, please, don’t stop…”

He’d pulled his hand abruptly out of her weeping *. The sense of loss was devastating.

“I’ll do what I want. Go on, slut, tell me more.”

She squirmed against the ropes that kept her from touching him. Their welcome bite helped her to focus.

“He was a poet. Russian. He knew—knew me in a way I’d never experienced. I didn’t understand at the beginning, but he showed me, taught me…”


“I knew it, damn it all! I felt it, the first time I saw you.” Tears welled in her eyes at his harsh tone. “Did he whip you, this master of yours?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cane you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Torture your nipples? Gag and blind you? Suspend you from the ceiling? Stuff his fist into your anus? Mark you with his blade?”

Shame flooded through her at this litany of sins. Even Andrew MacIntyre was appalled by her secret desires.

He grabbed her rear cheeks and pulled them apart, as if to inspect her most private parts. Her juices painted the insides of her thighs, clear evidence of her perverse excitement. His nails dug into the welts he’d inflicted. Sweet torment winged through her helpless body.

“Speak up, slave. I want an answer. Which of these obscene things did your so-called master do to you?”

Olivia fought a paralysing sense of humiliation, unable to reply. “All of them, sir,” she whispered finally, terrified of his reaction but compelled by the force of his will. “All of them, and more.”

Andrew abruptly released his hold on her, backing away so that she could no longer sense his heat. Was he leaving, abandoning her in this compromising and uncomfortable position? Had he gone for his knife, to cut her free and dismiss her? She craned her neck, but he was out of her line of sight. She heard quiet rustling as he moved about the enormous room. Was he retrieving an even more painful instrument with which to punish her?

“Sir?” she ventured, well aware that slaves were not supposed to speak unless specifically instructed to do so. The quaver in her voice revealed her desperate need. She didn’t care. “Please, sir… I’m sorry…” There was no answer.

Her heart spiralled down into a pit of gloom. A vision of her future stretched before her, bleak, sterile and unsatisfying. She recalled her despair when Dmitri had left her, the blank hours, the months of aching, unrelieved need. For some reason this was far worse. Though she’d known Andrew less than a day, the sense of connection was far more powerful than she’d ever felt with her sly, seductive Russian master. Dmitri had been irresistible but cruel, a true sadist who had loved to see her suffer. Andrew, in contrast, appeared to be a basically decent man, despite his deviant sexual needs—although those needs were less deviant, apparently, than her own.

If only she’d kept her mouth shut.

Then all at once he was behind her again, his strong hands gripping her hips and his rigid cock poised at her entrance. In an instant, Olivia soared back to the heights of arousal where he’d taken her during the beating.

“What are you sorry about, wench?” A single jerk of his pelvis seated his cock in her wet depths. Gasping at the sudden, delicious intrusion, she couldn’t answer. He moved inside her, hard and sure, glorious and right—stretching, filling, fulfilling. His wiry pubic hair scratched the backs of her thighs as he buried himself to the root.

Olivia strained against the pull of her bonds, arching her spine, wanting more. Instead, he drew back, emptying her. He rubbed his slick cockhead back and forth across her outer lips, carefully avoiding her clit and driving her crazy.

“I beg you, sir, don’t tease me…”

He laughed and swatted one sore butt cheek. “Be still!” Pleasure and pain rippled through her in alternating waves. “I’m in control here. You’re just my slut—the repository of my lust. And a very filthy little slut at that…”

Was he in fact disgusted by her past? Perhaps not to the extent that Olivia had feared.

She relaxed, opened herself, let him use her. In response, he slid back inside and resumed his thrusts. As she gave herself up to him, he rewarded her by increasing both the force and the speed with which he f*cked her. She floated on a cloud of bliss, releasing any thought of her own satisfaction. She was content to be a vessel for her master’s pleasure.

“Yes—uh—I’m surprised—a well-bred—educated—socially conscious—ah! You’re so damn wet, Olivia—so tight…” He drifted off into incoherent grunts as he drew closer to the point of no return. His magnificent cock grew longer and fatter than ever as he rammed it into her depths.

She focused on the stony bulk that stretched her so wide, clenching her inner muscles in rhythm with his strokes. Her one desire was to feel him spend inside her. He did not chide her for disobeying his exhortation to be still—but then, by now he was beyond speech. Later he might rebuke her—might even punish her…