My stomach swoops in trepidation. The anticipation of what will occur following the gala feels so much closer than it did. Once Byron and I walk out of the Lincoln Center, he’ll take me back to his apartment. And he won’t let me leave.
Wetness trickles into my underwear. As discreetly as possible, I cross my legs and squeeze my upper thighs together, but Byron notices. His eyes darken to a deep blue-black. My blush climbs and climbs.
“Patience,” is all he says. A caress of heat, and a promise.
An hour later, people begin trickling out the exit doors, their stomachs stuffed, their eyes glazed, and their balance shot. I stopped drinking an hour before, and while my limbs feel loose, my mind is mostly clear. Whatever Byron has up his sleeve, I’ll need my wits about me.
Outside, the air chills me, and I shiver. Byron drapes his coat over my shoulders. I nod gratefully at him. “Thank you.” It still holds the warmth of his body.
Tony awaits us at the valet. With each step closer to the car, my heart skips and my knees weaken. I’m not walking to the guillotine or anything, but the sense of nervous dread feels similar. Do I want to sleep with my boss? Yes. Is it a good idea? No. Do I care in this moment? Hell no. It’s been so long since I’ve had mind-blowing sex, and I’m fairly certain I’m going to experience that with him tonight.
Before I can climb into the back, Byron halts me. All I see is fire in his eyes. He says, “Before we leave, I want to make sure we’re on the same page. I want to take you home with me, but if you don’t want that, tell me now, and I’ll take you back to your apartment.”
My mouth goes dry. It takes three swallows before it’s sufficiently moisturized again. “What do you plan on doing to me if I go home with you?”
“You really want to know?”
My gaze darts to the people moving around us. Hopefully no one will overhear. “Yes.”
Tenderly, his hands cup my face. His thumbs stroke back and forth over my cheeks. The gentle display combined with the tension singeing through his body makes my need climb higher, burn hotter.
Byron dips his head, bringing his mouth to mine. Our lips are barely a breath apart. It’s not quite a kiss, and it makes me ache. ““First,” he whispers against my mouth, “I’m going to fuck you in my bed, hard. Then I’m going to fuck you against the wall. They’re glass, looking out over the entire city. I want anyone who’s watching to see me claim you. And you’re going to like being claimed, aren’t you, Ms. Engleton?”
Oh, boy. I am in way, way over my head. The way he’s speaking sort of reminds me of Pizza Guy, except he’s the furthest thing from my mind right now.
Byron’s eyes glitter with such dark promise.
I gulp. My head bobs jerkily. “That sounds, um—” Blowing out a breath, I calm myself and start again. “I mean, yes. Yes, I want to go home with you.”
“Excellent.” Smoothly, he tucks me into the car before sliding in on the other side. Personal space no longer exists between us. He plants himself against my side, his arm curving around my back. I’m wide awake.
“My place, Tony,” Byron says, using his Mr. Billionaire voice.
The drive is quiet, full of fleeting touches that make my breathing ratchet higher and higher. All the while, a soft smile graces Byron’s mouth. He knows what he’s doing to me, and he’s enjoying it. As am I.
Seconds or minutes or hours later, we pull up to Byron’s building. Tony lets us out, and I cling to Byron like he’s a lifeline, even though he’s the one dragging me down beneath the waves. Drowning.
Stepping inside his building is like stepping into a dream. The air smells of pine from the many lit candles illuminating the lobby. The fall decorations are minimal, yet tasteful. Billowing, gold curtains frame the enormous arched windows. We pass the elevators, and I send Byron a confused look. Surely we’re not taking the stairs.
At my confusion, he explains, “I have a private elevator that goes to the penthouse.”
I roll my eyes. “Of course.”
He swipes his card, and the doors open. I begin stepping inside when Byron grabs me by the waist and hauls me against him. The hard length of him digs into my crease. I was right.
He does have a donkey dick.
I’m actually a little concerned. How is he supposed to fit that thing inside me, unless it’s with a crowbar?
“Leila,” he breathes. “Leila.” Byron plants the sweetest, softest kisses against my shoulder, moving my hair to the side so he can reach my neck. I moan and let my head fall back against him. My eyes slide shut. It feels so good to be desired. I remember how insecure I’d been at the end of my previous relationship. If my own fiancé couldn’t bear to have sex with me, how could any other man?
“Sweet,” he murmurs. “So sweet.” His palm shifts across my stomach, rustling the fabric, and moves to palm my ass. He digs his blunt fingertips into one of my butt cheeks and pulls it to the side, effectively widening the space where he can nudge himself against my backside. It’s dirty as hell, and my face feels like it’s going to burn right off.
Abruptly, he swats the same cheek, and I bite back a scream.
“And so damn naughty.”
With rough hands, he yanks me into the elevator, slaps the button. The doors close. Before I know what’s happening, I’m shoved against the wall, my mouth crushed by his, invaded by his hot tongue.
It’s the darkest, hungriest, most ruthless kiss of my life. Byron Schaffer is single-handedly swallowing me whole as he licks inside my mouth, asking—no, demanding—for me to release control. Our tongues clash, lick, slide. His groan vibrates against my teeth, and I answer him with a moan. Every delicious, filthy sound of desire fills the space around us.
His hands dive under my dress, prying my thighs apart. I gasp out a second later when he shoves his hard thigh between mine, pushing upward until he hits my sex. And still we’re kissing. Ravenous, eating kisses. There’s no finesse to them. They’re wet, messy, but I don’t care, and neither does he. When I capture his bottom lip between my teeth and tug, he makes an animal sound and bites at my mouth until I let go.
His hands clamp the backs of my thighs. They move upward, palming my ass, squeezing to the point of pain. It only fuels my need. Byron yanks his mouth from mine and latches onto the side of my neck, marking it. I arch into his touch, grind against his thigh, faster and faster. The most pathetic mewling sounds fall from my mouth. The world is light and shadow, blurred. The pleasure builds.
Suddenly, he’s gone. Cool air slaps my face. I open my eyes, needing the wall to lean against, otherwise I’ll slide to the floor. He stares at me with that piercing gaze. His voice, when he speaks, is so low so as to be nearly inaudible. “You, Ms. Engleton, have driven me completely insane these past weeks, and I’m looking forward to paying you back for all the torture you’ve put me through.”
He cups my sex, and the ache in my core grows unbearable. I move against his hand. I’m being led by blind need, seeking out a higher, tighter, brighter pleasure. An exploding star. A moment later, he removes his hand, clucking his tongue. “Ms. Engleton. Did I give you permission to move against me?”
“N-no.” I can barely keep up with the game he’s playing.
Gently, he tucks a strand of my hair behind my ear. “I’m going to have to punish you for that.”
Yes. Please do, I want to say. Except there’s no air in my lungs.
A faint, satisfied smile graces his mouth. He doesn’t reach for me again. This, I realize, is my punishment. Denying me what I really want: his touch.
I try not to breathe too loudly, too forcefully, but my heart pounds like I’m running for my life. Despite my misgivings, I do want this. I want to know what it feels like to be owned by him, to give up my power to him, to put my complete trust in his hands. He’ll shatter my world, but he won’t break me.
In silence, the elevator rises. I wonder wh
at he’s thinking, what his plan is for me. He told me he’d fuck me in his bed, against the wall. What I want to know is, what about the counter, the table, the shower, the floor?
Just the thought makes my ears warm.
Finally, the elevator stops, and the doors open. I gasp, stepping through. “This is where you live?”
I sense Byron behind me, not wanting to interrupt my view of his penthouse apartment. From the foyer and living space along, he could fit fifteen of my apartments inside here. My guess is he has the entire top floor to himself. A house atop a skyscraper, basically.
Walls painted an eggshell white are adorned with giant abstract canvases in bold greens, blacks, and golds. The colors match the rest of the living area. White couch, gray rug, with pillows in those same accent colors. It’s rather sterile, but it’s so impressive I can mostly overlook it.
Fresh flowers—daisies—stand on a round table in the center of the foyer. It opens into the living room, which is encased entirely of glass, offering a spectacular view of the city lit up at night. The living area flows into the equally massive kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, and through there, a smaller dining room. It looks like a museum.
In my apartment, I have an entire bookshelf dedicated to photographs. Granted, it’s a tiny bookshelf, but it’s important for me to display photos of my family, old friends. I don’t spot a single photograph in Byron’s living room.
“What do you think?” he asks. Curious, but also, dare I say, nervous? Of what I’ll think?
“It’s beautiful,” I say, which is the truth.
A pause. “But?”
I take my time turning. His gaze burns me alive. “But,” I say, “it’s kind of sterile. It doesn’t look like anyone lives here.”
His reaction is so slight it’s easily overlooked, but I notice how he tenses. “My housekeeper does a good job keeping this place spotless.”
“Sure, but where are the books? Your shoes? Pictures of your brother, your mother? Where’s the coffee mug sitting on the table? Where’s the throw blanket?” I stop, unsure if I’ve gone too far. “You can, of course, decorate how you want. It’s just something I noticed.”
If anything, his gaze grows heavier, more intense. Byron steps forward, slowly. “Take off your dress, Leila.”
He’s so calm, so in control. Meanwhile, I’m shaking like a leaf.
We stare at one another, neither making any effort to move. He’s waiting. I’m frozen in terror, not of him, but of how he’s making me feel. Giving myself over to him means trusting that he won’t hurt me in the process. This would only happen if I felt for him deeply, which I do.
“Byron,” I whisper.
He strides over, rests his palms on my shoulders. The scrape of his calluses across my skin draws the heat up through my pores. “Let me help you,” he rumbles. And, reaching behind me, he draws the zipper of my dress down, all the way to my lower back.
The fabric gapes open. Cool air hits my heated skin.
It’s a slow thing, getting peeled out of my dress. Every brush of Byron’s skin against mine sets my nerves on fire. When it’s done, my dress is pooled at my feet. Byron is still dressed. His lips are right there. And then they’re on mine, another claiming, the heat tearing my lungs to pieces. His hands on my waist. Bruising my outer thighs. Diving between, where my desire coats the inside of my legs. He swipes a finger through and pulls away, bringing it to his mouth, and sucks once, hard.
The sight is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen. My breasts feel full, heavy. My nipples are hard as thumbtacks. I can’t seem to catch my breath.
“Walk to the bedroom,” Byron says. “It’s the hall to your right, the door at the very end. Slowly now. That’s it.”
Feeling unhinged, I follow Byron’s orders. The heat of his gaze on my back and butt sears into me. I add a little sway to my hips, conscious of the jiggle. I’m not overweight, but I’m not toned either. I eat when I want, but I was blessed with good genes. In comparison, Byron is built like a god, and I haven’t even seen him naked yet.
His bedroom is as spare as the rest of the place, which makes me a little sad. Not a single personal touch. It’s basically his massive bed, a door leading to I’m guessing his closet, and another leading to a bathroom. There’s a table and a chair placed near the French doors, which open to his balcony.
He brushes against my back, and I arch against him. “Good,” he says, palming my ass with a possessive hand. “On the bed. Now.”
I scramble onto the mattress. Without breaking eye contact, he begins to undress.
He removes his bowtie first. Or rather, he yanks it off. With each article of clothing discarded, more urgency fills his movements. He unbuttons his shirt. Unzips his pants. Shoves them down his legs to reveal black boxer briefs tented at the front. He tosses his shirt over the chair in the corner. Then he’s naked before me, all sleek muscle, smooth tanned skin, powerful shoulders and chest, chiseled calves. Lord, this man is a fine, fine specimen.
I kneel before him in the heaps of soft, goose-down blankets. His erection stands tall and proud, stiff, an angry red vein running through the underside of the shaft and disappearing into his dark pubic hair. The cockhead is flushed and weeping. A pearly bead of liquid squeezes from the top and rests there, as if waiting for my tongue to swipe it clean.
“Do you like what you see, baby?” He comes forward to stroke my hair.
I nod eagerly. The slight sway of his cock is mesmerizing.
“Do you want a taste?”
Another nod.
His fingers tighten in my hair. I get it. Byron likes being in control. But the sight of his dick is so mouth watering I can’t wait another second. So I lean down and take him in my mouth.
Chapter 28
Byron
“Fuck.”
Wet heat envelopes my dick, and I buck my hips forward, too taken by surprise to control my body’s instinct. I’m primed.
My fingers twine through Leila’s curls. I allow her to set the depth and speed. She sucks me down in one go. Her eyes glitter. Her mouth is slicked with saliva, the sight obscene. My pretty personal assistant, giving me head, her mouth full of me. If only she wore one of those hot pencil skirts. Before I can speak, she pulls back, goes down again, taking me deeper. My cockhead nudges the back of her throat. She doesn’t have a gag reflex. The sight of her deep throating me is so surprising and unexpected that I don’t realize where her hand has gone until she slips a finger over the delicate skin of my sack. “Christ!”
I start pumping into her mouth. Can’t help it. She moans and lowers herself onto her stomach, slurping noisily as she licks me from base to tip, loving on the furious red head, tracing her tongue through the slit. The sensations tear hotly through me. My hips snap forward and back, gaining speed. Both my hands curve around her head. Leila takes it all. She grips my ass cheeks and pulls me deeper. Shit, I’m close. I spiral down to a place of pure sensation. There’s no thought. Only touch and smell and taste. My balls draw up tight, and my cock throbs in warning. I’m not going to come inside Leila’s mouth. I want to be buried inside her body when I let go.
I jerk away. Her mouth pulls free of me with a wet pop. Leila looks up beneath her eyelashes. She licks away the moisture on her bottom lip. “How was that?”
I prop one knee on the bed because I’m afraid I’m going to collapse and embarrass myself. “Leila.” I take her mouth in a ruthless, punishing kiss. She’s incredibly responsive to my touch, practically vibrating with pent-up energy. She’s ravenous. Our teeth and tongues clash, tangle hotly. I pin her beneath my body. Her curves mold against me beautifully, soft smooth skin, long limbs, a curved waist and a swell of hips. As we eat at each other’s mouths, she crosses her ankles behind my back, effectively locking me against her.
“I can’t tell if you know what you’re doing to me or if you have no clu
e,” I growl out, nipping at her lips until she opens wider and accepts my hungry tongue. “I’m going to feast on every inch of your stunning body, and you’re going to enjoy it.”
Her breathy moan is one of acceptance.
I fill my hands with the delicious globes of her bottom. I knead, pull them apart, swipe my finger through her crease. Leila encourages me, trying to shift nearer to my fingers. I move my mouth to her breasts and tease around one of the nipples. They’re dark, flushed with blood, engorged. I lap at one, softly. Hardly any friction. Leila curses, and I laugh and give attention to its twin while tweaking the one I just licked, rolling the damp pebble between two fingers. The more desperate she is for release, the more powerful the release will be.
When I feel that I’ve tortured Leila enough, I suck one nipple into my hot, wet mouth, hard. Her groan vibrates through her chest. She yanks at my hair and sends delicious tingles across my scalp. Her nails scrape gently. All the while, Leila whispers, “Yes, Byron. More. Harder. Yes. Oh!” She jolts when I bite one nipple. Not hard, but enough for her to take notice.
“I love it when you say my name,” I growl against her scented skin. I move downward, lavishing kisses across her stomach, licking into her belly button. Heading for what I really want. “It’s so damn sexy. I’ve imagined doing this to you. Watching you walk around in your tight skirts, your blouses, your hair tied up in a knot.” I press a small love bite to the soft skin of one inner thigh. “Lift your leg, baby.”
She does so, allowing me to bring her leg to rest over my shoulder, pushing the other leg wider so she’s open to my gaze. Her sex is red, swollen, dewy. Streaks of fluid coat her lips. Fuck. She’s gorgeous. And all mine.
With agonizing slowness, I stroke her core with my thumb. The more her hips gyrate, the closer she is to the cliff. The musk of her scent hits my nostrils. I inhale deeply, wanting all of her.
“Byron.” She pants out my name, trying to press harder against my thumb. I tweak her clit, and she gasps.
The Billionaire's Assistant Page 16