The Bride (The Boss 3)

Neil raised his glass. “To our unconventional relationship.”

I picked up my mine and added. “May it continue to surprise us.”

Under the table, I slipped my pump off and ran my bare foot up the inside of his ankle, hooking under his pant leg.

The darkly mischievous gleam in his eyes made my nipples harden, and my flimsy lace bra was not going to disguise anything. The corners of his eyes crinkled as he slowly half-smiled, half-smirked. “Darling, if you want to be surprised, I’ll shock the hell out of you tonight.”

CHAPTER NINE

After dinner, we headed back to the apartment. When we came in, we heard Emma and Michael laughing in the media room, so we snuck through the foyer and headed straight for the bedroom.

“It’s like bringing a boy home and trying not to get caught,” I whispered, sputtering my laughter.

“Let’s go into the bathroom. They won’t be able to hear us in there.” He pushed me along with a hand at the small of my back, which dropped to the zipper of my skirt. He deftly popped the hook-and-eye, pulled the zipper, and I stepped out as we crossed the bedroom.

I’d opened two buttons on my top before Neil could get a chance to accidentally rip them off. It was a teal silk, cap-sleeve, scoop-neck blouse that I adored, and I didn’t want to risk not being able to find a replacement. I whipped it over my head as we stepped into the dressing room, and Neil stopped me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Wait, right here,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“Did you lock the door?” Not that I thought Emma would ever dare come into the bedroom while we were in it, even if the door were wide open.

“Of course I did.” Neil pulled the wing-backed armchair from near the shoe rack to sit in front of the mirror. He hadn’t taken anything off, not even his jacket, and I was standing there in my black lace thong and matching bra. So, it was no surprise when he went to the small jewelry safe and punched in the passcode to retrieve my collar.

The collar I wore when engaging in a D/s scene with Neil wasn’t the kind you could attach a leash to or use for anything rough. A perfect circle of platinum about as wide as my thumb, ringed all around by huge, flawless white diamonds, the collar had cost Neil an asthma-attack inducing seven-figure sum. He’d given it to me on our trip to Paris the year before, which made it all the more precious to me.

But the most important part of the collar was the mindset it put me in the moment the latch closed around my throat.

“On your knees.” The sight of me collared had a powerful effect on Neil, as well. The change in him was instant. One moment, he’d been horny and laughing with me, the next he was stern and commanding.

I dropped to my knees before him and caught myself subconsciously wetting my lips. He opened the clasp and fitted the cold metal band around my throat, then gently fastened it again. While I loved wearing the collar, I always had a moment of fear when it first went on. I didn’t care for anything around my neck—well, except for Neil’s hand, on occasion—and my psyche didn’t seem to notice if whatever was around my neck was a noose or a turtleneck or a BDSM collar. Neil knew this, and just as the latch clicked into place, he reached down and cupped my cheek. The reassuring touch of my Sir was all I needed to regain my equilibrium.

His hand went to his fly, and my mouth dropped open, my lips wet and obediently waiting.

He laughed and walked to the armchair. He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it aside, then sat down, rolling up the sleeves of his white button-down. “Come here. Sit on my lap.”

I started to climb to my feet, and he made an admonishing noise. “I didn’t tell you to get up.”

Prowling toward him in a crawl, I pressed my thighs together on every pass. My vulva ached, begging for pressure, and I took it where I could.

“Slowly,” he ordered. “Let me enjoy the view.”

I bowed my head and fixed my gaze on the carpet as I approached. I didn’t look Sir in the eye without permission.

“On my lap, Sophie.”

I got to my feet, still not daring to lift my eyes. He pulled me down, so that my bottom was snuggled tight to his groin, and my legs splayed outside of his. He spread his big hand on my stomach and stroked up and down, between my breasts, over my belly button, the top of my panties and back again. Not with a gentle, feather-light touch, but a firm, kneading urgency. On one of his passes, he gripped the front of my bra and tugged at it.

“Enough of this silly thing,” he growled, jerking it upward. The lace-covered underwire rasped over my nipples, and I gasped. Even an unpleasant sensation could set my nerve endings on fire when we were together like this. He pulled the bra up, over my head like a shirt, rather than unfastening it. When I tried to slip my hands free, he stopped me with a firm grip on both my wrists. Lowering my arms and tucking them behind my back, he wrapped the bra around and around my forearms, binding them together. It wouldn’t be difficult to get out of on my own, but that wasn’t the point. It was meant to remind me to keep my hands still, not to forcibly restrict movement.

He’d parked the chair we sat in across from the full-length trifold mirror set into the opposite wall. I took in my reflection: my long legs draped over his longer ones, spread wide, the crotch of my black lace thong pulled up between my labia. His big hands cupped my breasts, kneading them as his mouth lowered to my neck. He nibbled and sucked, and squeezed with his hands until I was writhing in his lap as much as I dared without scooting right off.

One hand moved to stroke my hair behind my ear before he brushed his lips over the spot just beneath it, the spot that made me shiver and tickle all over. Neil loved to tease me this way, combining rough touches with delicate ones, so I never knew what to expect.

He dropped his hand to my shoulder, gliding down my arm, veering off where my elbow was pinned between our bodies. He followed the line of my hip instead, over my stomach to the top of my panties. He clenched the lace in his fingers, drawing the material up painfully tight in my cleft. The edge of the fabric cut across my clit, and I squeaked in discomfort. He eased off and slipped his hand beneath the lace. I watched the mirror, fascinated, as his big hand stroked me beneath the thong, his fingers curled possessively over my mound as he rubbed in soothing, maddening circles.

“Oh, did that hurt?” He was definitely not as remorseful as he was pretending to be.

“Yes, Sir.” My lips pursed, and I was keenly aware of the slow, steady breaths I took through them. One finger slipped between my labia, over my clit, and I closed my eyes. My shoulders slumped, and I leaned forward on the hand that was still at my breast. The finger in my panties drew a lazy swirl, and I shuddered.