Bought By The Billionaire

Chapter 13: Bought By The Billionaire - Chapter Thirteen

“Mast… Mr Haswell. Is something wrong? Have I … have I done something wrong?”

He almost jerks back to reality and smiles at me. “No, not at all, Elizabeth. I just have a lot to think about right now. I’m sorry. It’s not very gracious of me to sit in silence. And also, here …” he takes my hand before continuing, “… here, in this place, in this setting, it is ‘Richard.’”

Relief washes over me. “I was beginning to worry that I had upset you, Richard.”

He leans close and kisses me on the forehead, cupping my face in his hands. “No, I am simply distracted. Please, do enjoy your meal. Is your fish good?”

“Yes, very.” In fact, the fish is divine, with tender white flakes in a buttery sauce, piquant with capers and lemon, and served with tiny, bite-size vegetables, crisp and fresh, that taste as though they were still on the plant five minutes ago. The restaurant deserves its reputation and is a world away from the takeout pizza I was living on only a short time ago.

Later, Ross drives the car to my apartment to drop me off.

Richard almost growls when he sees where we are. “I don’t like you living here, Elizabeth. It’s not safe. I can understand why you lived here … in your previous life … you couldn’t afford any better then, but it’s different now. Why haven’t you moved somewhere else?”

“Oh, I will. I have somewhere picked out, in fact. But I’m waiting for my first paycheck to come through. Then, trust me,” I laugh. “I’ll be out of here. They won’t see me for dust.” Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

“Of course, yes. That’s good. Good night, Elizabeth.” He kisses me as I step out of the car.

As I turn the key in the lock, I look back. The car is still there and Ross and Richard are both looking at me. “Waiting for something?” I call.

Ross replies, “Always do, Beth.” He tosses his head, pointing to the rear seats. “He’s made it clear that if I don’t stay long enough to see you in, he’ll have my ass.”

I chuckle. It’s nice to know that someone will take the trouble to watch out for me. “That’s great. Good night, Ross. Good night, Richard.”

*****

In my dingy apartment, my good mood evaporates into a feeling of let-down. Why? I’ve had a wonderful evening, have been wined and dined, had sex that left me wanting to scrape the top of my head off the ceiling. Why do I suddenly feel blue? The food, so delicious, sits heavily inside me.

In my bed, I admit to myself that I’m lonely for him. I would like to be curled up in his bed with his arms around me as I drift off to sleep.

But that is not the deal we have. This is not a relationship. I am not his girlfriend or even a fuck buddy. I am an employee, simply one with some very good terms written into the agreement we made. I will have all the good things in life, including the training and education I need, to one day be rich and independent in my own right. For that, I service my Master, billionaire Richard Haswell.

I cannot complain. It is the chance of a lifetime. Nonetheless, I wish for more.

I cannot sleep, finding myself thinking of my Master, of his face as he commands me with deep, deep blue eyes gazing at my breasts, my sex. I think of the obvious pleasure he takes in bringing me to crashing orgasms, of his beautiful body, lean and tanned in those linen shirts and tight black jeans that he prefers to wear.

He fucks me to a spectacular orgasm every time, but I am beginning to wish that he might, just once, make love to me.

Love. The forbidden word. It is not in the contract. Oh, God. Don’t let me fall in love with him.

Almost instinctively, my hands drift south, and I sigh deeply as I open my legs, raising my knees, and parting my thighs to allow my fingers entry.

Simply opening myself is so erotic. I think of his eyes on me, watching closely as he commands me to spread myself open, stretch my pussy lips open to his inspection, to pleasure myself, to bring myself to climax, to fuck myself so that he can watch and enjoy, and to take me when he wishes, his fingers probing my juicy core, or his tongue licking long, slow strokes up through my glistening folds, delving deep or lightly, barely brushing skin.

I think of his eyes, dark in the glimmering candlelight, intense with desire, brilliant in lust, looking at me as he instructs me in his wishes. I am to have no secrets. He must see it all.

And I respond and obey, my arousal rising sweet and hot from within, under the power he has over me.

My fingers slide through my red curls, just re-growing after my Master shaved me that first day he discovered me illicitly using his shower. I chuckle as I remember my reaction—hands tied above my head to his shower fitting, naked to his eyes, as he produced the razor and foam. He shaved me then tongued me to a quivering orgasm, before bending me over the basin and fucking me, balls-deep inside me, to his own climax.

He hasn’t done anything like that since then, and with my fingers slipping past to my nub, I wonder if he would like me to wax. Does he want my pussy smooth and naked for him, so that he can see my slit, there for him, glistening with moisture as juices trickle down my thighs?

Does he prefer it now, sleek red hairs peeping through? Or perhaps he wants them to grow so that he can shave me again? My pussy juices are flowing at the thought of his mouth around me, sucking me.

A flash of heat stabs up through my sex, and I feel my flow starting again, my slit swelling and my breath quickening.

I work my clit, rubbing and circling, slipping back the hood to reach the sensitive bud within. As I flick it, I think of his tongue encircling, probing with the tip, exploring my pink folds, lapping slowly at my pussy juices, tasting me as he slides fingers inside me and probes me within.

My heart begins to pound, and I wish that I had one of the vibes he uses on me so expertly. I want to feel something inside me, so with one hand still plying my swelling nub, the other slides inside, one finger, two, then three. I want him inside me, but this will have to do.

I reach in and up, stretching fingers for my G-spot, massaging hard, and for a moment or so, release my clit to have a free hand to push down hard, flat-handed on my belly muscles, increasing the internal pressure on my pussy walls. I think of my Master, bending me forward, taking me from behind, his cock testing and teasing my slit, gently seeking inside me, an inch only, against my entrance, making me twitch and moan and shudder, before ramming into me hard, grabbing me by the hair and pulling my head backwards, forcing me to arch my back and turning my moans into screams. Rubbing hard at my inner walls, electric arousal sparks flames in my head. My thighs are wet and hot, and the bed is damp beneath me.

Again, I am moaning, trying to be quiet so as not to be heard through the thin walls to the next apartment. My pulse is racing, and I am sweltering under the sheets.

I throw off the covers and lie, naked and writhing, sleek with sweat, as I plunge my hand deep into my cunt. Again and again, I try to bring my Master within me, taking me with his cock, filling me hard until I can see nothing but him, feel nothing but him. I want him in my pussy. I want him in my mouth. I want to feel him judder and spasm as he cums, spurting his load into me and on me. I want him to orgasm over me, over my face and breasts and belly, into my aching pussy, into my mouth, letting me milk him, licking his cream from my lips and face.

Harder and harder I work myself, plunging my fingers in as deep as they will go, desperate for a substitute for my Master’s body inside me. My hand is slick from fucking my own saturated pussy, my lips hot and swollen, pulsating with need and the desire for release.

It won’t come. My orgasm just won’t arise within me. I need more. Scanning my room, dimly lit from the streetlights, I spot a bottle of baby oil. It will do...