Anything He Wants 2: All's Fair (Dominated By The Billionaire) Read online

  “You’ll come when I say, only when I say.”

  I whined, this time in protest, and his hand fell away. The sudden absence was like a cold bucket of water - an unwelcomed interruption, no doubt punishment for my complaint. To my delight, however, the space was quickly filled by another sway of his hips as he slid his hard shaft pushed between my thighs, and a hand came up to clamp behind my neck. He didn’t push inside, merely sliding along the wet folds. “Please,” I moaned, lifting my hips to grant him better access.

  “Please, what?”

  His voice held amusement, although I couldn’t see his face, but this time I was sure I knew the answer. “Please, sir.”

  “What would you like, little cat? Do you want me inside you, that gorgeous ass of yours spread to take me deep? Should I ride you hard, force you to come with my cock pounding deep?”

  That voice, gravelly and rich and right next to my ear, could melt stone. He slid across the hard bud between my legs, and everything rushed back; I was so close, it wouldn’t take much...

  I felt his bulbous tip nudge at my aching entrance at the same time hands spread my butt cheeks, fingers running along the puckered skin. He pushed inside both openings at once and I almost sobbed, the pressure and stretching a welcome relief. He wasted little time, his hips picking up a steady tempo even as his fingers worked my back hole. Within a minute, I was moaning with each thrust, my cries echoing off the marble table and ornate mirrors in the room.

  As his thrusts grew more forceful, banging the tops of my thighs repeatedly against the edge of the marble slab, I looked up into the large wall mirror above the mahogany dresser in front of me. It gave a clear view of the man behind me and, although I heard very little from him, I saw the raw need on his face. His mouth opened in muted gasps, the long arms reaching to my neck straining against the white shirt material. The corset back of the bustier with its strings and white lace was hot; it was impossible to believe it was my body reflected in the mirror.

  Very quickly, however, it became all about the various sensations, the build of an explosion I’d been desperately seeking and prayed would come soon. He was pounding into me now, each thrust slamming me into the table which, for all the abuse, remained steady. I wailed, my orgasm rushing to meet me. “Please, I can’t stop. Sir, please!”

  The hand between our bodies disappeared, and Jeremiah increased his strokes, jerking hard inside me. Fingers on the back of my neck squeezed, throaty cries and guttural groans coming from close behind my head as fingers slid around front of me, gliding over the beating core between my legs. “Come then, I want to feel your body’s reaction around me.”

  There was no way I could have stopped myself. My orgasm flooded over me like a wave of light; I cried out, my hands gripping the table like a vise, body shaking. Jeremiah’s thrusts hit places inside me that had the waves roll on and on, but then I heard a guttural, hoarse cry from above, and he jerked over me with only a couple last erratic thrusts. I lay there for a moment, panting and thankful for the cool surface of the marble beneath my too-hot body. Jeremiah laid his forehead against my shoulder blades and we stayed that way for a moment, struggling to catch our collective breaths.

  Finally he pushed himself off me and pulled out, running a hand along my spine as he stepped back. “You can let go of the table now.”

  Easier said than done. My hands were stiff and difficult to free, and as I tilted upright I flexed them to return feeling. Leaning against the table for support, I gave myself time to catch my breath as Jeremiah rearranged his clothing, then walked over to a nearby seat. He picked up a small paper bag with some big swirly name I didn’t recognize and brought it over, setting it gently on the table beside me. Leaning in close, he placed a surprisingly soft kiss to my forehead, then nudged me gently toward the bathroom. “Go, clean up and put these on. Keep the lingerie on underneath, I want to know it’s there beneath the clothing.”

  My legs felt like jelly, but I took the bag and wobbled to the bathroom, remembering to grab my purse before locking myself inside. Setting the bags on the floor, I stood in front of the sink mirror and stared at my reflection in the tall mirrors. My blonde hair was a mess, still damp from the shower, but the tousled look seemed to fit the rest of my outfit. I ran my hands down the stiff white fabric, turning so I could see the corset strings across my back. I’d never before worn lingerie this fine – heck, I’d never really worn proper lingerie ever – but staring at the flare of my bottom beneath the white lacy contraption, the strings barely covering the tiny thong that hadn’t been much protection...

  I looked good. It was a novel concept for me, and I admired my reflection in the mirror. Then I sobered. I’m not going to end this farce, am I? Whatever games Jeremiah Hamilton was playing had gone too far; I’d allowed myself too many liberties to play the innocent in this game any longer. So what does that make me, a well-paid office assistant, or a glorified mistress?

  The question disturbed me, and I tried to block it from my mind. Taking a few minutes to clean myself up thoroughly, I discarded the tiny panties before turning to see what was inside the bag he had given me. A trendy pair of pants, a simple yet silky blouse, and a pair of red flat shoes made up the clothing portion, while a brush and other toiletries lined the bottom. The clothes, as far as I could tell, were the right size even though I knew my curvy figure wasn’t exactly the norm in Europe. He’s obviously done this before to know exactly what is needed. I didn’t care to explore why that thought annoyed me, it brought up more questions I didn’t want to hear right now, so I pushed them aside and hurried to make myself presentable.

  Twenty minutes later I emerged, fully clothed and refreshed, to see him waiting beside the table with the domed dishes I’d seen earlier. They contained a simple selection of fruits and crepes, with real whipped cream in a chilled metal dish. Looking at the clock I saw it was still morning, and I thanked the powers that be that I had managed to sleep on the plane. “What’s the plan for today?” I asked, remembering Ethan mentioning something about a gala.

  He took my hand and lifted it to his lips before popping a handful of grapes into his mouth. “Eat while you can,” he said, watching me pile the fruit onto the thin crepe wrap. “Today, your work really begins.”

  ***

  Don’t miss the next installment of Jeremiah and Lucy’s story, coming soon exclusively to Amazon!

  Books by Sara Fawkes

  Back In The Groove

  Anything He Wants

  Anything He Wants 2: All’s Fair

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  About The Author

  Sara Fawkes has always loved spinning tales. One who’s been writing since she was a little girl (and has the home made books from preschool to prove it), she loves creating stories and characters and interesting messes for them to get into. And for the handsome guy to always get the girl in the end. An avid traveler and adventure motorcyclist, her dream job includes selling everything off and leaving civilization to see the world on two wheels, writing in cafes in each country she visits, and living off her writing. In the meantime however, she lives in California with her menagerie of pets and, when not writing, loves to rebuild old motorcycles/cars and practice her fiddle. You can find her on Twitter @sarafawkes or online at http://sarawriteserotica.wordpress.com talking about whatever strikes her fancy.

  Anything He Wants 2: All’s Fair. Copyright © 2012 by Sara Fawkes. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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  a Fawkes, Anything He Wants 2: All's Fair (Dominated By The Billionaire)