Forced to Yield: Blackmailing the Billionaire Series - Book 2

by Tasha Fawkes

  My heart trip-hammers as I watch. This is happening. It’s happening now.

  "Whether it's with me or someone else, it's important to understand your role as a sub, but at the same time, never to give up all control over the situation."

  My eyes are riveted to his fingers, and I watch as he begins to unbutton his shirt. Beneath the starched white of his dress shirt I see a glimpse of hard, muscular chest, hairless. When he yanks his shirt from his trousers, I barely hold back a gasp of surprise. He’s beautifully formed, his muscular definition much deeper, more apparent than I ever imagined. I feel an immediate surge of desire contracting my pussy.

  "Take off your blouse."

  Startled by the command, I hesitate. Embarrassed and self-conscious. But this is what I want, right? I feel a flush rise in my cheeks, but I try not to show outward emotion. Slowly, nervously, I unbutton my blouse and allow my blouse to slide off my shoulders onto the bedspread, watching as his eyes focus on my breasts, covered only by the black lacy Victoria's Secret bra that I spent half of my grocery money on yesterday.

  I sit straight, resisting the urge to cover my breasts with my hands from his unwavering gaze. Instead, I place them on either side of me on the bedspread, my fingers clutching the plush fullness of the maroon fabric.

  He slowly unbuckles his belt as he continues. "Neither one of us is to initiate any action that causes injury. Neither to our bodies, nor toward our mental and emotional comfort levels. We will discuss our boundaries before we proceed deeper into the Dom/sub relationship. You understand?"

  "Yes," I barely manage to choke out, my gaze riveted to the bulge behind his zipper. He unzips his pants. I can barely breathe.

  "Pain is acceptable, as long as it provides pleasure, although sometimes it can be used to correct behaviors. Nevertheless, pain is not the foundation of this relationship. Do you understand?"

  I yank my gaze from his crotch and look up at him, gazing intently down at me. I nod, then swallow as he shrugs off his shoes and allows his pants to slip down and pool around his ankles. I feel an almost electrical charge surge from behind my breasts down my spine, warming my belly, and causing a growing heat in my own groin.

  "We will make pre-agreed-upon limits, specifying what is acceptable and what is not. Boundaries. These boundaries are not to be crossed unless discussed beforehand, and the boundaries don't change unless we both agree to them. Do you understand?"

  I try to focus. Really I do, but oh my God, he’s so much more than I ever expected. His voice is low, soothing, like a teacher, but all I can focus on is that broad chest, those muscular abs, his narrow hips, and his rock-hard legs. At the junction of those legs, his obvious arousal, pressing against his… not exactly the traditional boxers that I remember my brother wearing around the house, but not those tighty-whities, either.

  He sits down on the bed next to me, warmth emanating from his skin. He smells wonderful, sexy, like a man. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me backward onto the bed, facing each other. His hands begin to work at the button of my pants. Every part of my body begins to throb with desire and anticipation. I struggle to catch my breath, not sure exactly what to do with my hands as he continues to talk to me, explaining these rules, as if I’m not lying practically naked next to him.

  He lay right in front of me, his hand on my hip, his mouth so close I feel his breath on my cheek as he speaks, my hands clutch in front of my breasts, not sure what to do with them.

  "We'll have to come up with a safeword for you, something that you can say that will stop any action. Safewords are important, but are not typically needed if the Dom and the sub understand one another in regard to their desires and limitations."

  His fingers ease under the waistline of my pants and begin tugging downward. I lift my hips slightly off the bed to facilitate their removal. His voice purrs.

  "Remember, Ashley, communication is essential."

  He pauses, his fingers now tugging on the strap of my thong. "So, tell me, Ashley, tell me what you want."

  What do I want? I want to feel his lips on mine. I want to feel his tongue in my mouth. I want to feel his mouth encompassing my nipple, suckling. I want to feel his rock-hard cock inside me, surging, my legs spread wide to accept him. I want to…

  "I want everything," I murmur.

  He rolls me onto my back and in the next instant his mouth is on mine, not gentle, but not particularly harsh. Firm and demanding. Obviously taking control. The following seconds have my head swimming. His mouth is everywhere, as are his fingers, as if testing my limits. I wince only slightly when he unexpectedly twists my nipple between his finger and thumb, but then immediately follows the move with a swirl of his warm, soft tongue, eliciting a surge of desire that has me lifting my back off the bed, thrusting my breasts upward, demanding more of his attention.

  While his mouth devours one nipple, a broad hand strokes down along my waist, along my hip, and grabs my ass. Squeezes. Hard, but not painful. An instant later, I feel the open-handed slap on my butt cheek. I giggle—

  "Stop that!"

  His firm tone of voice startles me, and I squelch the giggle as once again he squeezes my ass, harder than the first time, and then strokes his fingers along its contour, delving into that wet niche between my legs. He asserted his dominance with that tone of voice, and I realize… I realize that I like it, that sense of control.

  My body is on fire. I want to roll onto my back, spread my legs, and reach for him, but he controls every move, giving me specific instructions to follow. Lie still. Don't touch me. His orders are clear. I want to touch him, to feel his strength beneath my fingertips. To wrap my hand around his engorged dick, but I can't. Not until he allows me to.

  Instead of finding that off-putting, I find it titillating and exciting. After a few moments, I’m allowed to touch him where he instructs me to touch, stroke where he orders me to stroke. Squeeze where he demands me to squeeze. It’s like nothing I’ve ever experienced before. Not quite gentle sex, but not dark and dirty either. He’s a little rough, squeezing my breasts harder than I've ever felt before; he plucks my nipples, grabs a handful of hair and tugs my head downward so I can see his dick, but not to the point of causing me pain.

  Rather, I find it invigorating. I feel empowered under his instructions, determined to follow through with his commands, to give him what he wants, and allow him to take what he wants from me.

  Finally, every nerve in my body thrumming, afraid that I’ll explode, he seems to sense my need. Gasping for breath, feeling like I’m going to finish before he tells me I could, he flips me onto my back and spreads my legs. He half kneels between my legs, bending and pushing my knees apart. He stares at me, at my eyes, and then pointedly glances down at my breasts, his mouth slightly open, his pupils dilated. His gaze sweeps downward and fastens on my exposed pussy. My internal muscles contract under his gaze, and then his mouth is there, his tongue laving my lower lips, suckling on my nub, causing me to groan and lift my lips higher. I reach for his shoulders.

  "Hold still. Don't touch me, " he orders, his voice vibrating against my mound.

  It takes every ounce of my effort, but I place my hands at my sides, clutching the bedspread beneath me. His skin glistens with a sheen of sweat. I catch another glimpse of his engorged cock, but I can't reach it, can't touch it, as per his orders.

  His lips and tongue work on my pussy, rough, but thrilling at the same time. He nibbles gently on my nub, and then I feel a finger plunge into my slit. I can't halt the moan that escapes my throat as I throw my head back, enjoying every sensation as that finger strokes in and out, his thumb circling my nub. I want to feel him plunging his cock deep inside me, but he doesn't. Not yet.

  He shifts position, his lips and tongue still focusing on my wetness; he lifts his hands and grabs both my breasts, squeezing in a rhythmic action and then twisting my nipples and plucking at them with his index finger, repeating the process in time to his suckling. A myriad of different, slightly painful, se
nsations hum through my body and overcomes any sense of discomfort. The burgeoning flame in my pussy continues to rage, and then, his lips suckling deeply, his fingers twisting my nipples, I fall over the edge. Waves of contractions take over my body, take my breath away, and leave me laying limp and exhausted beneath him.

  When I open my eyes, he kneels over me, his gaze riveted to my face once again. I glance down, see his cock, thick rope-like veins on its surface, thinking that now he’ll take me, fully and completely. I can touch him. Finally, I can touch him.

  Instead, he climbs off the bed and stands before me, allowing me to look my fill. But I want him back on the bed, next to me. I want to suck his—

  "Next time I will take you, in any way that I wish. Do you understand?"

  My arms at my sides, my knees still bent and spread, I nod, my gaze riveted on his face as he gazes down at me, his expression motionless. The only indication that he gained the least bit of pleasure from our… whatever this is, his dick, still jutting out at an angle from his body. He abruptly reaches for his clothes and then disappears into the living room. He’s getting dressed. Is he just going to leave? Just like that? Without talking about—

  He appears in the doorway, fully dressed. I look at him, confused. Did I not please him? Is he disappointed—

  "I'll get in touch with you after Christmas. We'll make plans."

  Then he’s gone.

  Eight

  Daniel

  It’s Christmas Day, but I’m having a difficult time enjoying the holiday. Ever since my rendezvous with Ashley at the hotel, I've had trouble focusing. As I turned from the doorway to the bedroom and left the suite, I had to fight the urge to go back and take her. Take her hard and fast. My body demanded it, but I quelled the urge. I’m the Master. I will not allow myself to be directed by my own desire for her, to feel this way.

  Now, two days later, I still feel distracted. Growing up, Christmas used to be one of my favorite times of the year. When I was a child, my mother would go all out with the decorations, engaging her staff to hang Christmas lights, put up the Christmas tree, with boughs of Holly and garlands around the house and all that, but by the time I was eight-years-old, I realized that she wasn't doing that for me. She was doing it for show, for the parties she threw, the social event more likely an outlet for pent-up frustration and perhaps lingering grief rather than trying to make the holiday enjoyable for me.

  I suppose it didn't really matter.

  Even so, I did enjoy the holiday season in the city. The lights, the Yuletide spirit and everything that entails. I spent every Christmas with my mother, more out of an unspoken rule than preference. This year, I'm also spending the day with Karen. The two of them together. I sigh. They seem to enjoy each other's company, but I don't really want to spend time with either one of them. Actually, my presence at my mother's house today is out of my sense of obligation rather than any true desire to bond. As far as my mother is concerned, it’s just another holiday, and that spoils the ambiance for me. Looking around at the decorations in the living room, it all seems rather pointless. Why does she still bother?

  Since I arrived early this morning, Karen due to arrive soon, my mother has bedeviled me with questions about the upcoming marriage arrangements, the plans, the details, none of which I know nor care about. Karen is handling most of it. She doesn't ask my advice or opinion on anything, and I don't really want her to. I find it all rather tedious. I’m not looking forward to any of it. I don't allow my reasons for that to rise to the surface. Not today.

  We sit in the living room now, she’s sitting in her favorite white-upholstered armchair, so proper, so stiff, her cup of coffee balanced ever so carefully on the saucer resting on her knee.

  I sit in the corner of the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, arms outstretched, my cup of coffee untouched on the table in front of me. Magazines fan just so, as if the housekeeper has taken a ruler to make sure that the arrangement of Home, Gracious Living, and Bon Appetit all appear equidistant to each side of the table.

  "Did you hear me, Daniel?"

  I glance up at her, an eyebrow lifted in question. "Sorry, what did you say?"

  She frowns with disapproval. "I asked why you didn't attend the board meeting two nights ago? There are some important decisions to be made about expanding our reach into South America."

  What can I say? That I was busy that afternoon indoctrinating Ashley into the world of bondage? That I originally planned to make the meeting, but because I'd taken more time with her than I had intended, at lunch and then in the room, I was running late? That I left that room in dire straits, considering that I didn’t allow myself to achieve release, and I had to take matters into my own hand, literally, in the bathroom downstairs in the hotel lobby to seek said relief?

  I almost smile. How would Mother respond if I actually admitted to such a thing? She'd probably have a heart attack. I sigh. "I talked to Roger yesterday. We're having lunch tomorrow to discuss those issues."

  Her frown deepens. "Daniel, you know as well as I do that the board meeting is the appropriate place to discuss such things. It's to be decided by everyone, not just you."

  I shake my head. I don’t want to argue with her today. "Actually, as the CEO, I have every right to make such decisions on my own." She begins to protest, but I lift a hand and stop her. "Don't worry, I'm not going to jump into anything without analyzing the data and consulting with the other board members. But I've been busy. I can't just drop—"

  "You're running an international import-export company, Daniel. Your struggling publishing company is no match for—"

  "We're not struggling," I say patiently, likely for the hundredth time since I've opened the business. "Actually, we're doing quite well. We have three releases this month, with excellent authors." I nod, thinking about it. "I've signed each of them to multi-book deals. Things are going well."

  She says nothing but lifts her coffee cup to her lips, not glancing my way. I know what she’s doing. It’s that old mantra that I'd grown up with: if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. Usually, she doesn't hesitate to speak her mind, but perhaps, like me, she doesn't want to spoil Christmas. As if.

  I can't understand why my mother is incapable of supporting me in my true passions for what I want in my career, and life. True, my position as CEO of the family business is an obligation, but I take it seriously even though my heart is in publishing. She knows that, but she doesn't care, or at least act like it.

  Which brings my thoughts—with a certain amount of resentment—to Karen as I glance at the clock on the mantle of the cold fireplace. She’s late. Again. My mother calls her tardiness "fashionable" but I just find it annoying and rude. I sigh, shift my position on the couch, and glance around the room, neat as always; a place for everything and everything in its place. I grimace. What is with the Disney references? A Freudian desire to revert back to childhood, when things weren't so complicated?

  Or on my sense of duty to my mother, whom I do love, which is the only reason I've allowed her to convince me that marrying Karen is a good thing? She doesn't know about my secret. She doesn't know about my membership in an underground and very secret society—

  a club of sorts, where those with my… proclivities can indulge with others of a like mind without judgment.

  I don't love Karen, I know that. I’m not even particularly attracted to her. She’s beautiful, no doubt, but now that I’ve indulged with Ashley, I have trouble keeping my mind off her. I've never indoctrinated a newbie into the world of bondage, but her delectable willingness and enthusiasm during our first encounter, a pre-introduction into that world has gone so very well. My dick espouses interest at the memory—

  I hear voices coming from the front of the house. Moments later, Karen sweeps into the room, as she usually does, as if she’s a movie star arriving on the red carpet. No doubt, she’s beautiful, her corn silk waves draping delicately along her shoulders and her slender build by no means absent
of voluptuous curves.

  Still, as she arrives, much to the delight of my mother, I can't help but compare Karen to Ashley. Ashley being the opposite of Karen in hair color, height, as well as personality. When talking with Ashley, I feel myself attracted not only to her figure, but her large, warm brown eyes, quite different from Karen's dark blue eyes that rarely display any signs of emotion. She’s cool, Karen is, and slightly haughty; a trait I normally admire in women, but that sense of aloofness carries over into just about every other aspect of her life.

  I stand, as expected of me, forcing a smile toward Karen, who approaches with a smile on her lips as well, wraps her arms around me, and air-kisses each cheek. Still close enough to catch the hint of the aroma coming off her bright red lipstick and the floral perfume she wears, triggering an instant headache. I’ve politely—and repeatedly—asked her not to wear such fragrances, as they tend to trigger migraines, but as usual, Karen Queen does what she wants, when she wants, and however she wants.

  "Karen!"

  Mother greets her, animated for the first time since I arrived over three hours ago. I watch the two greet one another with true affection. They’re birds of a feather, the only thing separating them in personality being their age. They’re both pretentious, both drama queens, and not only competitive, but jealous in nature. At the moment, they were smiling, head-to-head, murmuring in French, which I never cared nor bothered to learn.

  Finally, my mother turns to me with a smile, her hand clasping Karen's. "Karen just informed me that she’s found the perfect florist to decorate the church for the wedding. Isn't that wonderful?"

  I nod, pretending interest, wishing I were anywhere but here. I want to be back at my desk at the Pen and Quill. Familiar and comfortable territory. Even though it’s Christmas Day, I’d rather spend my day editing than enduring… this.