“Yes, Sir,” she whimpered.
“Please repeat,” he said firmly.
“I count to sixty, then go into the bathroom through the door by the desk and get myself together. Then you’ll walk me to the car.”
“Sir!” he barked, swatting her again.
“Then you’ll walk me to the car, Sir,” she cried, then buried her head in the pillow to release a loud groan.
As she felt the tie being removed from her ankles, she was awash with a sensation she had almost forgotten; the deep, warm serenity of submissive satisfaction. All she wanted to do was have him gently and sweetly undress her, then slide his cock into her depths and ride her to orgasm.
“You may begin counting.”
Shaking herself from the comforting dream she began to count, then slowly raised herself up. She felt slightly unsteady and glanced around for her briefcase. It was by the overstuffed armchair next to the couch, and walking shakily forward, she picked it up and made her way to the bathroom. Her bottom may have been scalded and stinging, and she may have felt tremulous, but she was happy. Very happy. Happier than she had been in a long time.
Closing the bathroom door behind her, she flicked on the lights and moved to the sink. Staring at her reflection she was shocked to see her makeup smudged and her hair a total shambles. Scanning the bathroom counter at the amenities provided by the hotel, she found a toothbrush with toothpaste and all the moisturizer and lotions she could possibly use. After repairing her face, she pulled her hairbrush from her briefcase and ran it through her tangled tresses. A few minutes later, when she walked back into the living room, steady on her feet and far more composed, she found Simon Sinclair standing by the door holding her coat.
“How are you?” he asked, his voice carrying a softness that not only surprised her, but sent a pleasurable warmth through her heart.
“Um–not sure how to answer that,” she replied, glancing at his handsome face, finding it even more alluring than ever.
“You have now learned I mean what I say,” he stated firmly.
“Yes, Sir. I certainly have.”
“You still wish to continue with the provision?”
She felt her face flush, and dropped her eyes as a wave of submission swallowed her up.
“Yes, Sir,” she replied quietly.
“I’m very happy to hear it. Come along now, it’s getting late and Parker will be picking you up at 8:30 in the morning,” he announced. “We have a breakfast meeting, after which you will be directing him around the hills, giving me a guided tour.”
“Oh. Right,” she replied. “Um. May I ask a question?”
“Yes, but I don’t always answer questions.”
“I just need to be sure. Do Parker and Cecil, do they know...?”
“...that I spanked you, will be spanking you?”
“Yes,” she mumbled, as his spoken description of their arrangement sent a fresh flush across her face.
“No, Ms. Somers. As I stated in the provision, that is a private matter between the two of us.”
She sighed softly.
“Thank you. It matters,” she admitted.
“Of course it does. Now please put on your coat and I will walk you out.”
“Yes, Sir,” she said, and as she walked across to him, realized how right and automatic it had felt to call him Sir.
Turning her back to slip her arms into the sleeves, she could smell the faint aroma of a heady cologne. She wasn’t a fan of scent on men, or women either, but the fragrance was masculine and alluring.
“May I ask, what is that cologne?” she asked, turning to face him.
“It is unique–I created it and it is mine alone,” he replied, staring down at her.
For the briefest of moments she was sure she felt a spark, a flash of electricity between them.
“It’s very appealing,” she commented. “Does it have a name?”
“Yes, but it is not for public consumption,” he answered, his voice resuming its formal tone.
“Ah. Yes, I apologize.”
“No apology necessary,” he said, falling in step next to her as they left the suite and started down the pathway.
“What will the breakfast meeting entail?” she asked, hoping if she changed the subject back to business it might help alleviate some of the intense sexual tension she was feeling. “Do I need to prepare anything?”
“Please bring the information sheets on those properties you feel would meet the criteria I outlined tonight, and select a restaurant for lunch where I will not be forced to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with other patrons.”
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll have everything ready.”
They had reached the driveway, the efficient chauffeur, as usual, was waiting with the door to the limousine open.
“Oh,” she declared, stopping abruptly. “Mr. Sinclair that won’t work.”
“What won’t work?” he asked, startled by her unexpected pronouncement.
“That car. It’s too big and long for some of the areas we might visit. May I make a suggestion?”
“Of course.”
“I’d be happy to drive you around in my Lexus.”
“Thank you, but no. Parker–arrange for a town car for an indefinite time.”
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair,” Parker replied.
“That should take care of the problem,” he remarked. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Yes. In the morning.”
Belle stepped into the car, gently taking her seat, and as Parker closed the door, she stared at Simon Sinclair through the tinted glass. He gave her a tight smile before turning and striding away, shoulders back, moving as though on a mission.
What an extraordinary man, she thought. Please God, don’t let me fall in love with him.
Simon Sinclair was a proud man. A brilliant man. A visionary. And an addict. That’s how he saw his need, his kink, his sexual dark side; but he could control his addiction. This night however, his addiction had controlled him.
It mattered not that she had created the opportunity.
It mattered not that he had given her an out.
It mattered not that her need for him was as blatant as her beauty.
None of that mattered.
What mattered was that he could have–should have–waited.
He could have scolded her in the morning.
He could have given her a warning.
He could have done many things.
What mattered was that he had yielded to his addiction.
The moment she had stepped into his suite and he had felt her behind him, the moment he had turned and faced her, the moment he saw the slight blush cross her face, the moment he witnessed the gentle submissive lowering of her eyes, he wanted to devour her. He wanted to clutch her hair and press his lips against hers. He was filled with a fever he’d not felt in a long time, if ever. A fever he barely recognized.
Through the meal he had regained his control, but when her soft, feminine hand slipped into his, when she had turned and stared up at him as she murmured her goodbye, demurely promising him an immediate answer to his provision, the dominant animal surged within him, a bolt of erotic electricity had shot through his heart and his loins; his addiction had refused him release.
Perhaps if she had waited to respond to his provision until the morning; perhaps if she had not given him an answer for a week or more; perhaps if she had changed her mind at the last minute, perhaps then he would not have been consumed by his dark hunger, but even as he made the argument he knew it to be false. She was...different...
Thoughts swirling, Simon Sinclair marched away from the limousine but did not return to his suite. He needed a distraction, a drink, people around him. He headed for the bar. In the few times he had visited the city, the Bel Air Hotel lounge had become one of his favorite Los Angeles haunts, but the entire property had been renovated and was now modern and sleek. He missed the old-world, cozy charm it once possessed.
At least t
hey kept the piano he mused, settling into one of the bar stools. He missed Gus as well. The bartender had been a mainstay, a genteel man from another era who had served some of the Hollywood greats, Grace Kelly, Cary Grant and Gary Cooper, but when the hotel had closed for renovations Gus had retired.
He ordered a whisky and scanned the room. There were couples engaged in intimate conversation, an obvious precursor to a night of sex; couples who were clearly bored with each other’s company, having spent many hours in many bars in many hotels, and had run out of things to say to each other; couples who were nervous, clearly on their first or second date, the man hoping to get lucky, the girl not wanting to give in too easily. Couples! A stark reminder that he was alone, obsessed with thoughts of a woman he’d just met, wondering why and how she had managed to slither under his skin.
Meeting her had been arranged by Tyler Anderson. Simon and Tyler had been friends since their days in Oxford where they had formed a group called, Lovers Of The Rod, a males only club that shared a passion for bondage and spanking. They’d get together for drinks and share their stories of triumph and tragedy. While most had married and settled into their lives of home and family, and what he assumed was probably vanilla sex, Simon had traveled a totally opposite path, remaining a confirmed bachelor, determined to retain his lust and passion. Tyler was the only friend from the group that Simon knew had married a submissive, and by all accounts was very happy.
When Simon decided to seek out a house in Beverly Hills, he had asked Tyler if he knew any single, sexy female realtors who might like to mix a little business with some wicked pleasure. Tyler had immediately thought of Belle. She was attractive and smart, and Tyler was sure she was a submissive, or at least sub-curious. She had dated one of his LA buddies, and had asked him to tie her up. It was easy to maneuver Susan Caldwell into suggesting Belle as the perfect candidate for the job.
Simon had used the ‘added provision’ only once in the past, with a young woman sent to him from another of his college friends. It had worked out well for them both. What had inspired him to use the added provision after so many years he wasn’t quite sure. Just one of those ‘seemed like a good idea at the time’ things.
Simon sipped the tepid amber liquid, recalling the gentle, full curves of Belle’s bottom, lifted so perfectly by the sofa back as she had waited, bent over, ready for his attention. What was it Tyler had said? How had he described her? Cute was the word he’d used.
Cute? Cute is the weather girl on a local TV station, Simon mumbled to himself.
He had been completely unprepared for the stunning woman who had sat across the dinner table. Her eyes literally twinkled, and she was entertaining and sexy and simply adorable, and when she lowered her eyes, and that unpredictable pink blush crept up her neck and across her face, he wanted to envelope her, spank her, and in the words of someone famous he could not quite recall, make mad passionate love to her all night.
Downing the last of his drink he headed out. The couples were now annoying him. There was only one thing he could do, one thing that might help take the edge off, and when he reached his suite he pulled out his phone and tapped the number next to the name, Crystal.
Thirty minutes later the expensive escort was in his room, kneeling on the floor as he sat on the couch, his rampant cock between her lips. Closing his eyes he tried to focus on the delicious expertise and the warm wetness of her mouth, but as his moment neared it was not Crystal in his head, but Belle, a sweet submissive who had allowed her addiction to control her, just as much as his addiction had controlled him. Who, he knew, was laying in her bed that very moment thinking of him, her finger undoubtedly dancing between her legs...
...the image was enough to put him over the edge, shooting forth into the welcoming muzzle of the talented prostitute, as he had done so many times before, with so many women, in so many cities across the globe.
She disappeared into the bathroom and Simon shook himself out of his reverie, standing up and closing his robe. Crystal had been paid upon arrival, and when she emerged from the same bathroom Belle had used just a short time before, he walked forward and gave her a quick hug before walking her to the door.
Switching off the lights, he moved into his bedroom and settled between the sheets. He was tired and drained and the hour was late, but in the darkness the mental pictures and salacious thoughts churned in his mind forcing a decision; he was going to back away from the beautiful Belle. Besides the fact that their interaction had happened much too fast, the intensity he felt as he had spanked her was almost frightening, the surging, unexpected emotional connection startling, and Simon didn’t do startling.
As he closed his eyes, asking for sleep, he hoped she was as efficient and bright as Tyler had said. Simon had never broken his word in his life, and if she made another mistake...
Across town in her brass bed, Belle was staring at the ceiling. The LED lights from her DVD player, her cable box and her LCD barometer, cast their ghostly glow around the room, and as always, the spectral light floating gently around her, for some obscure reason, made her feel less alone. Her microfiber sheets were soft against her tender backside, and just as Simon had guessed, her fingers were frolicking against her sex. She thought Simon Sinclair was without doubt, the sexiest man she had ever met.
Oh Lord. I gave in so easily. I should have waited. What have I done? What must he think of me?
But her anxious thoughts gave way to her need, and with the memory of her trip across the back of the couch, Mr. Sinclair delivering her first spanking in years, it was mere minutes before her climax rocketed down her spine, sending waves of sparkling tingles through her body.
Sleep threatened to descend quickly, her fears and insecurities vanquished at least enough that she could doze, but as she slipped away her sense of self-preservation began to take hold.
I can’t let it happen again. I have to be perfect. He’s an international businessman–a frickin’ billionaire–and who am I? If I fall in love with him he’ll just break my heart and I refuse to let that happen...
The following morning, Belle was relieved and grateful that Cecil Havers was present at the breakfast meeting. When she had entered the suite and Simon had flashed his welcoming smile, she had quickly looked away, pretending to search for something in her briefcase, fearful her eyes would betray her intense attraction. He was dressed in a blue and white striped shirt, and white linen slacks, and looked simply too stunning for words. Now they were seated at the table, Cecil between them, but Simon was opposite her, which made avoiding his sparkling eyes almost impossible. Every time she looked up he was studying her, or so it seemed.
Breakfast was a buffet that had been set up on a table by the window, and offered scrambled eggs with all the extras, and a range of wholesome granolas. She had chosen the latter only because it seemed to be the easiest. Simon however, was eating enough food for a football team.
“I think the house behind the Beverly Hills hotel is a contender,” she began, between mouthfuls of her cereal, “and the one quite close to here, off Stone Canyon, would also be worth some time. There are a few near Sunset Plaza, though that is Los Angeles, not Beverly Hills...“
...no. I’m familiar with that area. Traffic,” he interrupted.
“Yes, traffic can be bad over there,” she quickly agreed. “There are a number of lovely homes in Holmby Hills,” she added. “Do you care for Holmby Hills?”
“Yes, but I would prefer to be around the Beverly Hills Hotel area, above or below I don’t really care. It’s all about the house and the privacy it affords.”
She had placed her briefcase near her chair and leaned over to rifle through it, attempting to retrieve some listing pages. That morning she had chosen her wardrobe with even more care than she had the night before, choosing a black pant suit with a white silk blouse, hoping it would be less attractive, but as she bent down to look through her briefcase her blouse gaped open, giving Simon across the table a clear view of her breasts.
>
He didn’t mean to look. The movement had simply caught his attention, and the picture of her full lush breast fell into his line of sight. His cock stirred instantly, and hastily he pulled his eye away, but as she leaned even further down he could not resist the temptation and stole another glance. The thin lace that trimmed the top of the bra cup resting against her skin looked so delicate and feminine, he wanted to run the tip of his finger across it, then slide his hand into the cup, fondle the beautiful mound and pinch the rosebud nipple he was sure topped the mountain. Images of diamond studded nipple clamps danced in his head–
“Ah. Got them!” she announced, withdrawing several pages.
Jolted out of his momentary fantasy he quickly averted his stare, focusing on the cup of tea in front of him. Completely rattled he reached to pick it up and clumsily knocked over the glass of water sitting next to it.
“Damn and blast!” he exclaimed.
“Mr. Sinclair, are you all right?” Cecil asked, jumping up to blot the water with his napkin, completely oblivious to that which had caused his boss’s out of character mishap.
Simon Sinclair was the modicum of grace and decorum, and in all the years Cecil had worked for him he had never seen him knock over anything, let alone a full glass of water on a dining table.
“I’m fine!” Simon quickly replied, pushing his chair back. “Absolutely fine.”
Fine? I’ve never been less fine in my life? What the hell is happening to me?
He checked his pants and shirt and found no evidence of having spilled on himself, but he was totally unnerved.
“Cecil, can you please fetch me a fresh cup of tea,” he asked, wishing he could rise from the table. In spite of the accident he still possessed a surging cock-stand.
“Of course, sir,” Cecil replied, and laid several serviettes on top of the large wet area in the tablecloth, effectively covering up the spill.
Belle was speechless. As she had sat up with her listing sheets in her hand, Simon Sinclair was staring down at the table looking very odd indeed, and a moment later had thrown his arm forward, sending his water glass flying. She had sat quite still as Cecil quickly mopped up the mess, attempting to make things right.
The British Billionaire Bachelor Page 4