More, please.
“You want to get out of your pickle with the Tacones, you need to fucking work with me. You sure as hell don’t try to trick me, because, sweetheart, it will not go well for you.” Two more perfectly placed slaps, right over my clit. My pussy squeezes on air and I hold my breath, desperate for a little more. Desperate to reach my peak.
“Fuck.” He slaps my ass again, then releases my hands. He spins me around, picks me up by the waist and plunks my burning butt down on the counter.
I’m dazed. Desperate. Disappointed. I stare up at him, my disheveled hair falling in my face.
He reaches for a bottle of water, cracks it open and hands it to me. “Drink this. Go upstairs to your suite. Go to bed.” His hands drop to my thighs. Slide up a couple inches. Stop. He rubs light circles over my inner thighs with his thumbs.
I bite my lips to keep in a whimper.
Please?
“And don’t touch yourself.” His voice is suddenly gravelly, the authority still present, but the harshness gone. “That spanking was for my pleasure, not yours.”
Flutters spin and twist in my belly, heat swirls through my pelvis.
He’s just going to leave me like this? And walk away?
I lean forward. “I’m sorry.” The words are nothing more than a squeak.
“Don’t.” He puts his thumb over my lips. “No talking, songbird.” He traces my lower lip.
I suck his digit into my mouth and watch his pupils blow, the snap of his hips between my legs.
A low growl issues from his throat. “Go straight to bed,” he warns. He drags his wet thumb down my throat, between my bare breasts, and over my fluttering belly. When he rotates his hand and hooks his thumb between my legs, I jerk and thrust into the touch. He holds my gaze as he strokes once, twice. A third time. “No touching,” he warns, raising a brow.
I’m trembling, ripe. Ready.
But he just backs away, adjusting his bulging cock in his finely tailored trousers.
He walks to the door, then turns and points to me. “You’ll hear from me tomorrow.”
I let out a shaky moan, nearly ready to cry with need.
He steps through the door, only opening it as much as his body requires, like he’s making sure to block any view of me from beyond.
As soon as the door shuts, I cup my mons with my hand. I don’t usually masturbate. In fact, my limited sexual experience made me think I might be asexual, at best. But I’m dying to get off right now.
Except as I stroke between my legs, Tony Brando’s face rises up before me.
No touching.
Fuck if I don’t want to obey him. He wanted me to suffer this way; he knew exactly what he was doing.
I stop the undulation of my fingers between my legs.
Okay, fine. I’ll try it his way. Only because I have a feeling he understands something I haven’t quite grasped.
Something about me and what turns me on.
Something I didn’t know existed.
Tony
I need a cold shower. And three shots of Gray Goose.
Pepper Heart is killing me. I didn’t mean to go in there and spank her ass red. I make a point of not manhandling women. I’ve never mistreated one in my life.
But I just can’t stomach actually intimidating her—employing the kinds of threats that will get a quick and terrified response. Her asshole manager, that’s different case. He’s going to suffer my wrath.
He’s the one I should’ve taken this cluster fuck up with from the beginning.
Trouble is, I can’t seem to stay away from Pepper Heart.
And I have to say, she gave a good show despite it all. I probably wouldn’t have noticed if I weren’t already so fascinated by her. Hell, yesterday I hadn’t even planned on attending the concert. But once I met Pepper, all bets were off.
And that spanking? It was the fucking hottest thing in the history of sex. Too bad I couldn’t let myself enjoy it in the moment. But the sight of Pepper Heart’s perky little breasts, her slender body bent over for my punishment? That’s gonna stay in my spank bank forever.
In fact, I can’t wait to rub one out tonight thinking about how much she liked it. The way she spread her legs for me to slap her pussy. The flush on her cheeks, her parted lips.
Fuck.
I need to get my head out from between her thighs and back in this game. I had figured on Pepper earning fifty grand a night to pay off her debt, which would give her about a month at the Bellissimo, if all the shows are full—which they’re not. I was hoping publicity from these first sold out shows would translate into selling out the rest of the tickets, but if the press gets wind of her little ventriloquist act, we’re all fucked. Myself included. Because if push comes to shove, and Junior Tacone calls me to the mat for this, I’m not sure I’d be able to do what needs to be done.