Tied to the Billionaire(15)

“You’re still willing to serve me, then?” His fingers were at her throat now, testing her pulse before sliding down to trace her collarbone.

“Of course, sir.” His touch kindled almost unbearable arousal. She wanted to sink to her knees, to kiss his feet, to breathe his scent and rub her cheek against the glorious hardness at his crotch. “I am yours to command.”

“Ah, that’s my slut talking. Come here then, girl.” He hustled her back towards the entry to the pavilion. The building resembled a normal gazebo, but dragons perched on the tiled, upswept eaves and were carved into the red lacquered pillars supporting it. He arranged her between the gateposts, facing the great house, which glowed like a Chinese lantern. “Raise your arms and put your palms against the posts. Yes, that’s right. Don’t move. Now, how to bind you…”

Olivia followed his instructions, eager for whatever he had planned. If someone had looked from one of Wavecrest’s many windows towards the sea, they might have detected some motion at the tea house, but darkness and distance would hide the details. She found herself wishing that the moon would rise, and was horrified by her own depravity.

Andrew stood before her, pondering the situation. He clenched and unclenched his fists. Energy fairly crackled through his powerful frame.

“I know!” He seized one of the ribbons that draped her skirt and yanked.

“Andrew, no! You’ll ruin it!”

“I paid for it. It’s mine to ruin—just like you.”

She shivered at the thought.

The satin resisted his considerable strength. Pulling a penknife from his tuxedo pocket—to Olivia’s surprise—he sawed at the ribbon until it gave way. “T’will be strong at least.” He wrapped the strip of fabric around her wrist several times, then tied the other end to the post. The satin caressed her skin, but held her tight against the pillar. “Now for the other…”

In a trice he had her suspended between the gateposts, helpless to resist whatever came next. “Now, to make you more accessible…” He slashed again and again at the elegant gown, tearing through overskirt, underskirt and petticoats. A sea breeze stirred the shredded silk, tickling her bare thighs. Moisture trickled from her cleft. She strained against her bonds, wanting nothing more than to touch him, but with an evil giggle, he stepped out of range.

“Ah, sweet, you do look wicked! What would your Russian think, hey?” He leant forward to pinch her nipple, triggering a shock of pleasure, but backed away before she could make contact. “Did your precious poet ever bind you outdoors, in full view of polite society?”

“No, sir…” Dmitri had confined their deviant games to the garret they’d shared. She’d sometimes wished otherwise.

“Ah—a first then! And do you like being exposed, Miss Alcott? Does it arouse you?” He still wouldn’t come closer. Olivia caught a whiff of her own ocean aroma. Her * clenched on emptiness.

“You know it does, sir.” Heat climbed into her cheeks. Heat pulsed in her core.

“Yes, yes, I do know. I know you, Olivia. I know what you need.”

As he gloated before her, he was unbuttoning his trousers. His cock sprang free, arching up towards his white cummerbund. She whimpered, overwhelmed, incoherent with desire.

“Ah—poor Olivia! Do you want something?”

“Ah—yes, yes, sir…”

“Ask me then. Tell me what you want.”

Olivia hung in her bonds, silent and needy.

“Ask, my sweet. Be brave.”

The bravado in his voice was gone, replaced by tenderness. He caught her chin in his fingers and raised her face to his.

Olivia swallowed her fear. “Sir—please—your cock in my cunny…”

“You want me to f*ck you?” Not waiting for an answer, he stepped between her spread thighs and rubbed the swollen tip of his organ over her slick folds. A premonition of climax shuddered through her.

“Yes…oh, yes…”

He sank into her depths. She moaned as he filled her—hot, hard, perfect. Crushing her to his chest, he worked his hips, grinding against her sheathed clit.

The friction undid her. She flew into orgasm, jerking in her bonds as he pounded her without mercy.

“All you needed to do, darling,” he murmured, as she came back to earth, quivering in his arms, “was ask.”



Chapter Nine





“Another strawberry, Mrs MacIntyre?” Andrew dangled the scarlet fruit an inch above her open lips, letting the cream that coated it dribble onto her tongue. Bound hand and foot to the four corner posts of the Louis XVI bed, Olivia could do little more than wriggle.

“If it pleases you, sir…”

He allowed the berry to drop. Sweetness exploded in her mouth as she bit into its firm flesh.

“It does please me. You please me, my little crusader, more and more every day.” He stretched his naked body over hers and mingled his coffee and tobacco taste with the fruit flavour in a luscious, lazy kiss. He was hard again, though fresh jism from their latest coupling still leaked from her cleft. His pubic hair scratched and stung against the welts he’d painted on her thighs with the new martinet. They’d found the toy yesterday at one of the city’s many flea markets, along with some iron manacles Andrew claimed dated from the Revolution. The lingering soreness in her * transmuted into an ache of need. She wanted him again, deep inside—as surely as he wanted her.