by Linnea May
"You can't forget what this is about, ever," I told her one last time, before she signed her name. She looked at me with that same stern expression I've become so familiar with, and nodded.
"Of course not," she said. "If nothing else, your money in my bank account will be a reminder."
Her voice was strong and cold, delivering as little emotion as the expression on her face conveyed. With the way she crumbled to my feet after I'd pulled that intense orgasm out of her, I expected her to reveal her submissive side to me a little too early. She may have been in subspace at the time, but in no way is she ready to bend to my will as much as I want her to.
She's also still a reporter. She reminded me of that just moments before we signed the contract, once again asking for permission to write - just write, not publish. I don't know why this is so important to her, but I told her that there was no way I could keep her from scribbling down words in her diary or something like that, as long as none of those words were ever shared with anyone else, either during or after our arrangement ends. She nodded and signed her name with quick and determined strokes, as if she wanted to do it before she could change her mind.
And then she moved in with me. She refused to let me help her with anything, and insisted on showing up in front of my house with nothing but a giant suitcase and a handbag that looked so worn out and cheap that I wanted to take it from her right then and replace it with something more befitting her new position. Of course, she refused and defended that horrible bag like a lioness protecting her baby.
Despite her defiance and characteristic confidence, she became oddly shy once we were alone inside the penthouse. She let the doorman carry her suitcase, casting me self-conscious looks as he accompanied us to the upper floor of my penthouse, as if trying to figure out how much he knew about our situation.
Does he know who I am? Does he know what this is?
Her eyes kept screaming those questions, but she never gave voice to them. I had to leave for a business meeting soon after she moved in, an appointment I had deliberately scheduled for that afternoon so I could give her some time and space to get comfortable in her new home.
I've shared this place with others before, but I've never cared much for their well-being. After all, they were hired to serve me. Every girl hired to serve as my partner and personal slut before had spent her first night with her legs spread and my cock buried deep inside her.
Things were different with Ann. It's been a day since she moved in, and I haven't touched her. She was hiding in her bedroom when I got home last night, and I didn't see her this morning before I left for the office - and I was actually happy about that. I don't know why, but I've been acting cautiously around her since that day I convinced her to agree to my offer. I don't know what it is with her, but something tells me that I need to be careful, to keep my distance for now.
I've never been this wary around any other woman, even though I probably should have been. Betrayal is hard to overcome, especial when it has been inflicted by someone close to you.
I have to make sure that Ann will never be in a position to hurt me in any way, no matter how much I crave having her as my submissive. It's just one more reason to take care of the professional side of our relationship. I told my assistant Silas about her before I signed the contract because Ann needs to be introduced to my closest staff members as soon as possible.
It's almost six in the evening when I come home from the office after a long consultation with Silas and my attorney. Time is running out to get things ready to launch my campaign to run for Congress. Ann is just another detail in that upcoming process, and even though I know she shouldn't be my main focus, I can't help the fact that she is.
I'm surprised to find her in the living room, her legs curled up on the couch where she's reading on a tablet, when I step inside the penthouse. Her wide and expectant eyes tell me that she's visibly startled by my appearance. Her hair is tied up in that long ponytail again, and she's wearing very little make-up on her naturally beautiful face. The sight of her clothes reminds me that she still needs a new wardrobe, as I don't want my partner dressing in the worn-out, sloppy look she's sporting right now. It frustrates me that she didn't bother to dress up for me.
"You need new clothes," I tell her in passing, as I make my way to the open kitchen that connects to the vast living room on the left.
"I can’t afford it," she says, annoyed.
I cast her a condescending look. "Yes, you can."
She puts the tablet down and approaches me then, awkwardly tugging at the sleeves of her hoodie that I'd just insulted indirectly. It's hideous. I have no issue with the short sweatpants she's wearing underneath it, though. At least those show off her long, lean legs.
"So, what now?" she asks, leaning against the counter separating the kitchen from the living area. "When does my job start?"
I pour myself a Scotch, evading eye contact with her. "It already has."
She clears her throat, and I can see from the corner of my eyes how she crosses her arms in front of her chest, taking a defensive pose before she continues to speak.
"Is it always going to be like this?" she wants to know. "We live together and you just summon me whenever you want to fuck or need someone to hang on your arm for some kind of public event?"
I take a sip from my drink before I turn back to her. Her attitude agitates me, and she knows that very well.
"Neither of those has happened so far," I say. "All you have done is to get off on my fingers like a bitch in heat, little girl."
"Stop calling me that."
She glares at me as I step closer to her, taking another sip of Scotch before handing it over to her.
"I don't like whiskey," she announces.
"You'll try this one."
My voice doesn't allow for backtalk, and sometimes, even Ann Porter knows when to shut up and simply follow an order. Her eyes never leave mine when she reaches for the glass and then takes a way too big sip from it. The way her face contorts after she's tasted the smoky drink is priceless.
"Disgusting."
"Cretin."
She gives the almost empty glass back to me, and I'm surprised to see the hint of a smile appear on her pretty face.
"Why haven't you fucked me yet?"
Her question catches me off guard, but I don't let it show. I finish the Scotch and place the glass on the counter between us, before deigning her with an answer.
"I am going to fuck you," I promise.
"But why haven't you… yet?"
Because I don't trust you.
That would be the honest reply to her question. I don't understand how I could find myself in this dilemma so quickly. My cock had been hard the entire afternoon when she visited my penthouse for the first time, and it's twitching with need again right now, ever since I first caught sight of her walking up to me with those damn legs that won't stop. She's been in my house for more than twenty-four hours and I haven't laid a single finger on her. On the contrary, I was happy to keep my distance. I wanted to be careful.
Until now.
I close in on her, relishing the moment my hands find her perky ass. She releases a soft moan when I grab her and pull her close to me. I squeeze her firm cheeks and deliberately press her against my growing hardness.
"It's not because I didn't want to," I tell her.
She smirks up at me. "I can tell."
Our eyes meet, and I can't help but see it again.
Danger. A potential threat to me.
Despite the nondisclosure agreement, the contract, the long conversations we've had - I still don't trust Ann Porter, because I still see the potential risk with her, the reporter, the woman who could expose my darkest secrets to the world, if I don't watch out. I was looking for a woman who wouldn't fall for me like the silly girls before her, but a rational and callous woman like her could pose a different kind of problem.
She's different than the ones before her, not only because she's just as cunning
and cold-hearted as I am, but because she has the potential to unmask and denounce me.
She could be that kind of person. The same kind that has betrayed me before.
And still, I don't want to stay away from her.
I can’t stay away from her.
Chapter 14
Ann
I don't understand this man. He releases me a moment after finally touching me for the first time since I moved in, and I can't help but wonder why. Am I supposed to be doing something that I’m not? Am I a disappointment to him? Why wouldn't he tell me what's wrong?
More than a day has passed, and I've had more than enough time to read that contract between us again and again. All it stipulates is that I'm supposed to be "submitting to his will" while I'm living with him, and I know that provision is primarily aimed at the sexual part of our relationship.
The way he goes back and forth is beyond frustrating. I'm not ready to say that I regret agreeing to this, but I have to admit that I'm surprised. First off, I'm surprised I agreed to do this in the first place—it’s so bold, so demeaning in a way - but so exciting. When I set my goal to not have to work once I reached thirty, not once did I ever imagine I would reach that goal by agreeing to be someone's private mistress.
Oh, how my father and brother would hate this if they knew! I know it's vindictive of me, but a small part of me did this just to put one over on them. Ann, the perfect daughter, their shielded little flower, deciding to sell herself to someone.
Of course, he is not just any someone. Even with what little contact we've had so far, Jared King has uncovered a side of me that I never knew existed. I don't know what to think of it yet, but I knew I'd forever be wondering about it, about all of this, if I didn’t agree to his offer. I would have been asking myself "What if?" for the rest of my life.
I know deep down inside that I want to do this. And I know I can do this.
But maybe he's the one having second thoughts?
I watch as he turns away from me to refill his tumbler with that terrible-tasting whiskey. He looks troubled, as if he's deeply concerned about something.
"You're paying me to be yours," I say. "Does that not include talking to me when something is troubling you?"
He takes a sip of his whiskey and casts a quick glance over to me, his eyes narrowing with suspicion.
"What makes you think something is troubling me?"
"I'm not stupid," I say. "You've been acting strange ever since we signed the contract."
"So have you."
Our eyes lock for a few moments, and neither one of us speaks. I might be imagining it, but it seems as if he is just as overwhelmed by normal social interactions as I am. The only way I’ve ever been able to get close to a man has been through one thing - sex. I've never had a meaningful and long-lasting relationship, just a few short-term flings with guys that I dated for a few weeks after random hook-ups, but we always split before the fire between us died down.
"What have you been doing all day?" he asks.
I don't like his question. It reminds me too much of a time in my past when I couldn't do anything or go anywhere without having to answer questions like that.
"Unpacking, reading. Nosing around the house."
His eyes flicker with anger at that last part, even though I'm sure that he knows I'm joking, but barely. Truth is, there wasn't much to find because the entire place is void of any personal touches that would tell me something about him, at least anything that I don't already know. Two of the upstairs rooms are locked every time he leaves the house, his bedroom and office. I'm sure those two rooms would be the most interesting places to search for clues about the man I'm now living with.
"Nosing around, huh?" he says, attempting to be nonchalant about it. "Why not just ask me, if you have questions?"
"I don't have any specific questions," I respond truthfully. "For a journalist, I've never been good with interviews; I prefer research."
He huffs and puts his glass down on the kitchen counter. "Are you hungry?"
I nod. "Very."
For a split second, I'm wondering if he expects me to cook for him, too. He never said anything about cooking, and there's no food in the kitchen pantry to indicate it was part of the plan, but I can't simply assume he doesn't expect it from me. After all, he said he's looking for a "partner", and that could entail a lot of domestic duties that never occurred to me.
"I would take you out for dinner, but you're not outfitted for that," he says, roving over me with a judgmental look from head to toe. "We still have to take you shopping."
"We?" I ask, frowning at his contemptuous behavior.
"My team. You'll meet most of my staff tomorrow. And then afterward, you're going to be fitted for a wardrobe that's appropriate for your role."
I roll my eyes at him, making sure that he notices it, too. He can get as mad as he wants, but I'm not going to let him talk to me like this.
"You know, I don't like you rolling your eyes at me."
He's inching closer to me in slow but deliberate steps. "Are you actively trying to get in trouble?"
I shrug. "If this is the only way to get your attention, then sure."
He comes to a halt in front of me, and for a moment it appears as if he's about to jump at me like he did the last time I infuriated him.
But he doesn't. Instead, he buries his hands in the pockets of his suit pants and casts me a smug smile.
"You don't want to test me," he says. "Trust me on this."
"I'm not trying to test you," I assure him. "But as far as I remember, the last punishment wasn't exactly that... bad."
I smile at him then, almost grateful as the memory of that afternoon flashes through my head.
"That's because it wasn't really a punishment, little girl."
"I hate it when you call me that."
He nods. "I know, but I haven't decided on a name for you yet."
I frown at him. "My name is Ann. No reason to come up with a new one."
He shakes his head. "There are a lot of things we still need to resolve."
I don't move when he closes in on me, raising his hand to the hem of my hoodie. He hooks his fingers below it and pulls it up, beckoning me with a simple look to raise my arms above my head so he can start undressing me. Getting me naked appears to be his solution to everything.
He makes sure that his fingers trace along the side of my body as he slowly pulls up the hoodie, tickling my skin ever so slightly. I giggle and obediently lift my arms. But instead of pulling the hoodie all the way over my head and removing it, he pulls it over my face and tugs it in place, leaving me blinded and helpless with my arms still stretched up above my head.
"Stay like this."
I mewl out helplessly, but do as I'm told. I'm not wearing anything underneath, and can practically feel his eyes on me as he soaks in the sight of my exposed tits. His touch is so sensual, his mere proximity alone stirs something deep within me. I know my nipples are hard and pointy, revealing my excitement.
I jerk when I feel his warm, soft lips on my right nipple. It's just a simple kiss at first, careful and soft, but soon he takes my stiffened nub between his lips, greedily sucking on it while his tongue circles around the sensitive center.
I moan out and arch my back, leaning in to him as he continues pleasuring me, placing one hand on the small of my back to pull me closer while he cups my other breast with the other. A yelp of pain escapes when he starts adding little bites to his treatment, obviously testing to see how much I can take.
My chest is heaving when he moves over to the other side, repeating the same technique until my left nipple is just as raw and tingling as the other one.
"Sensitive. I like that."
He frees me from my hoodie and throws it aside, taking my chin between two of his fingers and tilting my head back to face him.
"Have your nipples always been this sensitive?" he asks huskily.
I nod wordlessly, and he suddenly slaps my ass, remindi
ng me that I’ve failed to follow a rule.
"Yes, Sir," I say, quickly correcting my mistake.
"Good girl," he praises me, and as much as I hate him calling me a little girl, I find his praise has an entirely different effect on me.
"Have you ever used clamps on them?" he probes. "Or has anyone else used clamps on them?"
I shake my head. "No, Sir."
"Interesting…," he states, his voice trailing off. "We'll have to see how much you can take."
He lets go of my chin and takes a step back.
"Take off those sweatpants."
Without hesitation, I do as I am told, never breaking eye contact.
"Turn around," is his next command. "Hands on the counter, ass to me."
I obey again, my heart racing with anticipation.
"Hollow your back," he growls behind me. "Make that ass look pretty for me."
My cheeks burn with shame, but I do exactly as he demands. I've never been asked to pose for a man, and it feels as awkward as I thought it would.
"Good girl."
His voice is deep and calm, a total contradiction to my fast beating pulse. I can hear him moving behind me, and my heart jumps when I hear him unbuckling his belt.
“You want to get fucked, don’t you, little girl?”
“Don-“
I bite my tongue. No, I don’t want to argue with him right now. Not if it will ruin this moment.
"Yes, Sir."
I lower my eyes, even though he can't see my face. He steps closer and caresses my ass, causing me to shiver in anticipation. I hollow my back even further, eager to feel his hands at my center, the same as a few days ago. Slowly, painfully slowly, his fingers travel along my skin between my legs, pinching the inside of my upper thigh. I spread my legs, inviting him in.
A hearty moan flees my lips when he touches the soft skin of my labia. I sigh with embarrassment at the slick sound his intrusion makes when he parts my lips and slides his thick fingers through the wetness coating them.
"I knew it," he comments. "Dripping wet."
