Page 42 of Marrying the Billionaire Single Dad
12
Julia
Alphahole: Strip.
Alphahole: On your hands and knees. Arse in the air.
Alphahole: Don’t ignore my commands or you’ll pay for it.
"What the hell?" I stare at the text messages on my phone, then around the room. I’m back at the bedroom in the apartment he’d taken me to the first time. It’s five minutes to six pm, and hell, I’m early. Not by much, but why the hell couldn’t I have waited and made an entrance?
My phone vibrates again.
Alphahole: Why haven’t you taken off your clothes yet?
"What the—?" How does he know what I’m up to? Are there—I straighten, glance around the room—are there cameras here? Surely not. Or... I glance at the mirror on the wall opposite the bed… Hmm… Bet that’s where it’s hidden. Two can play a game here, huh?
I shove the phone into my purse. Yeah, okay. So I had dressed up a little. I mean, you can’t blame a woman for taking care of her appearance when she is going to spend some time with a rock god, huh? Not that it matters, considering the man isn’t here… Except for his orders by text messages…which, admittedly, are hot. Hmm. And, of course, I do want those orgasms he promised me… I’m not in this only for the money, after all.
I still don’t understand, though. What does he get from this? Unless he gets off on watching me come? I stiffen. It’s what he’d implied earlier… Only I hadn’t believed him… Maybe… Maybe he is observing me even now? I wouldn't put it past him to have cameras in this place. Perhaps, he has one in this mirror, and is staring at me right now?
I watch my reflection as I raise my chin, run my tongue across my lips, then reach for the strap of my dress. I lower it down one shoulder, then the other, allow it to drop. I let the fabric pool around my ankles, kick it aside. I weigh my heavy breasts, run my hand down my belly to cup the flesh between my legs. This won’t do; something is missing. I turn, head for my bag, pull out my phone and switch to one of his songs. The song that wasn’t his most famous, but which has always been my favorite.
The strains fill the air. His harsh voice croons out the words; they pour over me, wrap around my shoulders, slither down my chest, into the dip of my navel, down into the hollow between my legs.
I place the phone on the nightstand, walk around to stand midway between the foot of the bed and the mirror.
I grind my hips in tandem to the slow rhythm of the song, once, twice. Narrow my gaze on my reflection in the mirror…knowing, no wanting, him to be on the other side of it.
Look at me, Rockstar. Know what you are missing, every second that you are not here with me.
I reach behind me, unhook my bra and shrug it off. I cup the underside of my breasts, massage them, throw my head back and forth as I pinch my nipples. Then bring the mounds together, imagining what it would feel like if he were to slide his dick in the valley between them. A hot flush spreads across my skin, my core clenches, and moisture beads my center. I drag my palm down my belly, hook my fingers under the band of my panties. I slide them down my legs, and step out of them. Hold up the lacy briefs in my fingers before dropping them to one side.
I straighten, part my legs, and slide my fingers between my thighs to play with my pussy lips. I bring my other hand up to my breast, squeeze the nipple again. A groan spills from my lips; a shiver of lust runs down my spine.
I sway to the music, slide my finger inside my channel, bring my other hand up to my hair. I wrap the strands around my palm and tug. Another moan wells up my throat. My breathing grows ragged. I dig my fingers into my scalp, shudder as goosebumps rise on my skin. I thrust another finger inside of myself, and a third, the girth stretching my entrance. I curl my digits inside like he would if he were here. He’d shove his fat cock inside of me—in and out, and in again, and keep going.
He’d slam his dick inside my pussy, again and again, not letting up, not when my knees tremble, not when my thighs spasm, and not when moisture pools in my core and overflows to run down my thighs. Not when I throw my head back, close my eyes and pant, shake with the pressure that builds at the base of my spine and fills my womb and snaps tighter, tighter, edging me closer to the edge… Closer.
"You will not come."
His voice whips through my mind.Asshole.As if he could command me when he isn’t here. Why should I obey him anyway, huh? So what, if I am wound tighter than the rock star ever has been on stage in front of his adoring millions? He’d perform duo rhyme and I am performing for him… And for me… Yep, no doubt about it. I am enjoying being able to scrape my fingernails across my scalp, widen my stance as I shove my fingers in and out of my pussy, as I bend my spine backward, dig my feet—still in the fuck-me pumps I chose for this occasion—into the floor and aim higher, higher for that release that lingers on the horizon.
"Your orgasm belongs to me, Flower."
I snap my eyes open.
"Your mind may defy me, but your body knows how to follow my command."
Heat sears my back, envelops me, curls around my waist, down into the hollow between my thighs. "D…Damian," I gasp.
"Were you expecting someone else?"
"N…no."
"Why did you stop?"
"What?" I blink.
