Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86432 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 432(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Yes,” he said, sounding rough now in a way that made me shiver. “Clench on me. That’s it.”
He drove into me hard, all the way, once, twice, again, and then I felt him come.
The sensation of it—of his cock buried deep in me, of the pulsing heat flooding inside me—made me cry out once more. He held himself there, filling me, his hand hard on my waist. I could feel each pulse of him in the deepest part of me. The intimacy of it, the sheer possession in it, shocked me all over again despite everything.
I was still trembling when he reached, without withdrawing, for his phone.
I heard him unlock it one-handed and lift it to his ear while his cock remained inside me and my naked body was still draped over the dining table like a meal he hadn’t quite finished eating.
“Bradford,” he said.
His voice had gone calm again with terrifying speed.
A pause.
“Yes. Is the new young lady’s apartment ready?”
I froze.
Apartment.
He listened for a moment, his hand still resting on my hip as if the conversation and the fact of his semen inside me belonged naturally to the same order of business.
“Good,” he said. “We’ll be down shortly.”
He ended the call, set the phone on the table, and only then withdrew.
I gasped at the emptiness. Immediately I felt warmth slipping out of me. My face burned hotter than ever, if that was possible. I stayed bent over because I didn’t think I was capable of anything else, and because I instinctively felt, with a quick, scalding blush, that I needed permission.
He released my wrists at last.
“You may get up,” he said. I had to push down a whimper.
I straightened slowly, with a little cry at the combined soreness in my bottom, my thighs, everywhere. When I turned, he was looking at me with the composed satisfaction of a man who had just completed a task to his standards.
I wrapped my arms around myself without thinking.
“Don’t.”
I lowered them at once, more blood rushing to my cheeks.
He walked away toward the bedroom with the unhurried ease of someone entirely at home in his own authority. I followed a few steps behind because it did not occur to me not to.
By the time I entered the bedroom he had already opened a closet and was dressing with brisk efficiency, replacing the suit with dark jeans and a charcoal t-shirt that somehow made him look no less in command. If anything, the simplicity of it made him seem more dangerous, not less. He belonged in expensive tailoring, certainly, but the casual clothes suggested that the authority came from him rather than from anything he wore.
He crossed to a chest and took out a folded bundle of soft gray fabric, then turned and held it out.
“For you.”
I took it automatically. Sweatpants. A matching sweatshirt.
I blinked at them, then at him. “Now?”
“Yes. You’re sleeping downstairs in your new place tonight.”
Something fluttered low in my stomach at the phrase. Downstairs. Sleeping where he chose, apparently.
I hesitated. “Are you going to… I mean, can I… you know… take it out?” With yet another flush, I turned slightly and gestured to my backside.
His eyes dropped briefly toward the plug, then rose again. “That stays in.”
CHAPTER 19
Alex
“All night?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“And from now on,” he said, “you won’t wear panties unless I want to see you in them, because I want to take them off you.”
The words sent a fresh, humiliating pulse of heat through me.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Put those on.”
I obeyed. The sweats were soft and expensive-feeling. Pulling them over my naked body while I still felt sore and full and faintly damp from him was its own strange embarrassment. The absence of underwear made itself known instantly; the fabric brushed directly over the most sensitive parts of me and made me acutely aware of how thoroughly my new sponsor had used me.
Porter watched without comment until I had finished.
Then he took my elbow lightly and led me out of the bedroom, through the penthouse, and to the elevator. We rode down one floor in silence.
It was only one floor.
That somehow made it more surreal.
When the doors opened, we stepped into a beautifully furnished hallway, and he led me to a door that bore the number 33C. As soon as I neared the door, I heard it unlock.
“Facial recognition,” Porter told me. “Keyed to both of us.”
I felt my heart jump. Both of us.
Inside lay a small but still luxurious apartment. It was elegant in a more curated, impersonal way than his penthouse: pale walls, tasteful art, sleek furniture, a softness meant to reassure while quietly announcing that everything had been arranged in advance.
“Selecta maintains these apartments in certain buildings—for sponsors’ convenience,” he told me.
He showed me everything. The living room first, with a spectacular view of the distant National Mall, then the small kitchen with its gleaming counters and refrigerator already stocked with groceries, water, fruit, wine, yogurt, eggs—far more than anyone, I thought, would have prepared merely for convenience. He opened cabinets and drawers as if conducting an inspection.