Keeping His Promise (Year of the Billionaire Part 3)

by Falls, K. C.

  "In the bedroom, please," he told the waiter. Judging by the smile on his face when he left, the guy got a generous tip. "Now you in the bedroom, too."

  "Good god, after that dinner you expect me to eat more? What kind of glutton do you think I am?"

  "You, my sweet, fuckable one, are a glutton of the very best kind." He guided me over to the bed, slipped my robe off and seated me on the edge of the mattress. The bedside table had complimentary sleep masks and he pulled one out. "It'll be a lot more fun if you can't see."

  "Are we having fun with food tonight?" I eyed the table next to the bed.

  "Hush. Don't spoil it." He put the mask over my eyes. It was very effective; all I could see was blackness.

  He lowered me onto my back and ran his hands down the length of my body. It was always an effort of some will not to just pull him against me and urge him to mount me. The mere touch of his silky fingers on my skin sent a signal to my clit that was impossible to ignore. Much as I longed to see him and watch his cock grow in front of me, I knew the power of the blindfold by now. He would soon have every other sense blazing.

  He took one of my wrists and brought it above my head to the bedpost where he tied it. Then he walked around the big bed and tied the other one. "One of the key reasons hotels should always supply robes," he leaned down and whispered in my ear. "My neckties wouldn't be nearly long enough."

  As before, the bonds were loose and I could have easily wriggled free. It was the idea that held me, not the knots. I loved the thought of being the object of his lust, of being captured in his desires and fantasies. He had considered and planned what he was going to do with my body and that made me wild for it.

  "First, a little torture in your secret place."

  I thought he meant my clit. He went for my belly button. A wet finger poked into my navel, hard enough to make me try to move away. In my body, there seems to be some connection between my belly button and my clit as if a wire runs between them. Tristan, damn him, remembered how sensitive I was there and intended to torment me. He pushed and circled and the sensation, while I couldn't describe it as painful, was just plain weird. I squirmed under his attention.

  I felt his mouth on my belly next and his tongue probed where his finger had been. The connection remained, but the warm wet exploration of his mouth felt utterly different than the pressure of his fingertip. My pussy swelled and moistened and I couldn't contain a little moan of pleasure.

  I heard the clink of something on the table. When the ice cube plopped in my navel was still warm from his mouth. I flinched and sent the ice sliding down my side. Tristan ran it back and nestled it into the hole again. The skin he had made so sensitive seemed to close around the cube and I could feel the liquid accumulating under it as it melted.

  His warmth was near my breasts next as he suckled and twirled my tight nipples in his mouth. The scrape of his teeth was intense. My focus narrowed to the triangle of feeling on my chest and torso and the background music of my pussy, readying for whatever he had in mind. Time vanished with my sight and I gave myself permission to be a canvas for whatever artistry he could command. As the ice melted on my belly, so did my defenses and my fears. He wanted me to join him in the moment and the moment was all there was.

  He circled the swell of my breasts with both hands, both holding more ice. Beginning at their outer edges, he cooled ever smaller circles around them until he reached my impossibly rigid nipples. Then his mouth was back, only this time he had the ice to roll against me with his tongue. The combination of the heat of his lips and the chill inside his mouth was incredible--two opposite sensations that eddied around me like finding a cold spring in a warm summer lake. I wanted to drown in him. I wanted to sink to the depths of wherever he might take me and never come up for air.

  He straddled me and positioned his ass just above my belly. The warmth of his tight cheeks centered right over the remains of the ice cube. His cock rested in my wet cleavage, hot as a poker against my chilled skin. I could just smell the male musk rising from the heat of him. I felt something drip over his erection and my nostrils suddenly filled with the unmistakable smell of maple syrup, all earthy and sweet. My mouth watered and my mind reeled.

  He fucked my breasts, squeezing them together around his girth and sliding back and forth in the sticky passage between them. "Sweet, sweet, sweet," he muttered and I could hear the smile behind the words. He thrust upwards, tapping my chin with each stroke. His fingers never stopped their dance against my nipples twisting and pinching them in time with the rhythm of his shaft. I don't think I've ever come so close to orgasm having only my breasts touched.

  Tristan reached behind me and propped my head on a folded pillow and slid up so that his cock could reach my mouth. When he began to circle my lips with the soft head, I eagerly licked the sweetness there. Mixed in with the fragrant maple was the salty tang of his own liquid. I poked my tongue into the hole at the tip. He grunted at the small penetration and pushed further into me. He was thick with desire, stretching my lips, groaning at my eagerness to suck him dry.

  Without my hands, I had only my tongue and my lips to please him. I tightened my mouth around his girth and pushed back against his thrusts. He began to work his hand over the base of his shaft knowing I couldn't possibly take him completely. God it was so hot to know he was touching himself as I sucked him. I knew that, like me, he had allowed himself to let go, to do whatever came to him. Use me. Take your pleasure. Take me.

  I wanted him to come in my mouth. I wanted to taste the essence of man, to feel it run down my throat oozing with life. The pace of his hand quickened and his cock moved faster and faster in my mouth until he abruptly stopped, checking his climax. I mewed out my disappointment when drew himself out of my mouth.

  "Not yet, my queen. I love that you want me to come in your sweet mouth, but I'm not nearly finished with you." He gently cleaned the stickiness from my chest. He removed the blindfold and untied my hands. "How about some dessert?" I was pulled up to a sitting position and he sat across from me, putting my legs over his powerful thighs. I looked down between us and saw his turgid cock pointing straight at my pussy. Although I longed to have him there, I knew that the roller coaster of arousal would eventually reward us both. It was a wonder he could contain himself. His cock looked explosive.

  "Berries," he pronounce and lifted the dome on a dish full of strawberries and raspberries. In the middle of it was a small dish of whipped cream. "I know berries and whipped cream is a bit cliché but for the life of me, I couldn't think of a more sexy fruit, other than the peach between your legs."

  We took turns feeding one another bite after luscious bite. Tristan took one of the biggest strawberries and ran it between my legs, popping it in his mouth. "Sweeter than sugar," he grinned. He dipped his finger in the cream and spread it over my nipples. He sucked it off and smacked his lips. We laughed and kissed. We caught our breath, but his cock never slackened and the wet spot under me continued to grow.

  I watched him suggestively work the red fruits as if his mouth was down on me. He flicked at the tip of the strawberry with the same rhythm as his tongue would dance on my little erection. All the while his smiling eyes watched me watching him. It was the kind of scene you'd imagine in a campy soft porn movie. Nevertheless, it was effective. Tristan had a way of drawing our sex into a languid, slowly ascending pace that pushed me over the edge. By the time his cock finally found my pussy, I was voraciously hungry for it.

  We twined around each other at last, breathing the fragrance of berries and the musky heat of arousal rising from both of us. I ran my hand down the side of his body, feeling the marvelous definition of all of his muscles. Side by side, we explored the delight of being so different from one another. The soft curves of my hips nestled against the narrow bridge of his. His hard, fat cock pressed up against the cushion of my pussy and slid toward home. He was all outward, all male, with his cock displayed in the full measure of his masculinity. I was tucked inward, of
fering a warm feminine cave to welcome him inside.

  I tilted my hips and pulled my knees apart with my hands, ready for the first delicious thrust of his shaft. He reached over and pulled me toward his body as he lay on his side. He scissored my legs, one between his and one over his hip as he guided his erection into me. His strokes were measured, controlled. What a wonderful way he had me pinned between his strong, warm thighs. He was inside me and all over me with his hands at the same time.

  I closed my eyes and gave my consciousness over to the engulfing sensation of being full of him. I craved the union of our bodies with a hunger that only seemed to grow with each new discovery. I felt him quicken and I moved harder against him, pressing myself into the contracting muscle of his leg. His hands stilled and his head was thrown back against the pillow with a great grunt that sounded like painful pleasure. My climax wrapped around his spurting cock, coaxing the last rush of fluid from its tip.

  We panted next to each other, still joined. It was a moment I always made last as long as I could. I was satisfied completely by his lovemaking, but never fully sated. There was always a desire for more because it was the one sure way I had of knowing, at least for the moment, that the man was mine.

  Eight

  I nervously twirled around for Tristan's appraisal. I had chosen an ivory colored knit dress with a cowl neck and some coffee colored suede boots that came up to my knees. The dress slid over my skin as soft as goose down. It made me feel utterly feminine, as if the dress was caressing me. I had gathered my hair into a loose ponytail at the back of my head and let a few tendrils go free. My make-up, as usual, was minimal.

  "If 'chaste' is the look you're after, I think you've nailed it."

  I knit my brow. "You gave me the dress! Was 'chaste' what you were looking for?"

  He rose from the stuffy button-backed chair and held me. "I was looking for soft, which is what you are. Soft and sweet. You are perfectly and appropriately dressed. Except . . ."

  "Except what?" I scanned my image in the mirror trying to figure out what I had missed.

  Tristan pulled a velvet box from the inside pocket of his blazer. "I know you're going to object, but you need to be properly 'accessorized' as Kwan would put it. My father has an eye for details. If you hate the jewelry, we can take it back--later."

  "I won't hate the jewelry. I just don't think you should spend so much money on me," I said as I accepted the box. "Besides, from what you've told me, your father's opinion shouldn't matter one way or the other." Of course, I knew that wasn't true at all. I could read a lot more in what Tristan had said--and not said--about his father than he gave me credit for. Cold and indifferent parents are the kind children spend their lives trying to please or impress.

  The bracelet and earrings were set with a gemstone I didn't recognize. They were perfectly matched square cut stones set in rose-colored gold. Each was about the size of my thumbnail. But it was the color that made them so unique. Not orange and not pink, the warm glow of the crystals was somewhere in between. They reminded me of an autumn sunset.

  "I purposely chose something modest. I know how squirrelly you are about expensive gifts."

  "Yes, I'm sure you bought these at Claire's," I said sarcastically.

  "Claire's?"

  "Nevermind, it isn't a place you'll ever set foot in. What are the stones?"

  "Imperial topaz. Unusual, aren't they? I thought the color would suit you."

  "They're beautiful. Thank you."

  "That's it? I don't have to argue with you about it? Just a graceful 'thank you'? My, my, perhaps you're growing up."

  "Keep it up and I won't wear them," I threatened, but with a smile. I held out my hand and he fastened the clasp around my wrist. Then he brought my hand to his lips and brushed a kiss over my fingers.

  "You deserve beautiful things. You wouldn't frame a Van Gogh in plastic, and you should be adorned and clothed like the masterpiece that you are."

  I turned back to the mirror and put the earrings on. He watched me from behind with an expression that was dangerous and devouring. There was a possessive side to him and I couldn't decide how I felt about that. On the one hand, I was thrilled that he wanted me. On the other, I resented the way he wanted to control me without giving me anything to . . . hold on to.

  When I turned and met his eyes I felt as if I was falling again. Falling into his depths, getting lost in the tangle of his desire and losing myself in the dense jungle of his damaged soul. I looked at him and knew that it was impossible to be near him without wanting him. At that moment it was enough. It had to be enough.

  We went out to the ancient elevator and I used the long ride to admire how fine he looked. He had chosen a rather understated outfit for our brunch meeting with his father. The bespoke suit he had worn to dinner the night before had been replaced by a blue blazer and a pair of khaki slacks. His crisp white shirt accentuated his tawny skin and gold-brown hair. He glowed with good health and prosperity down to the tips of his perfect fingers. Today he chose not to wear a tie, but he had tucked a red pocket square in the breast pocket of his sport coat. The double-breasted blazer emphasized the broadness of his shoulders, his strong chest and narrow waist. For the thousandth time, I thought him as beautiful a man as had ever been made.

  We drove nearly the entire way to the Pump Room in silence. He was trying hard to appear casual, but I could sense his mood. There was tension in his jaw and his grip on the Bentley's steering wheel was a little too tight.

  "The Pump Room used to be about as old school as the Drake Hotel. A couple of years ago, the hotel that it's attached to was sold and the restaurant was completely overhauled. I'm kind of surprised my father still goes there."

  "He's not fond of change?"

  "That's part of it. But also because it was one of my mother's favorites. They used to go there on New Year's Eve." He smiled. "They took me there for brunch once in a blue moon. The thing I remember the clearest was the midget who served coffee."

  "A midget?"

  "I'm not kidding. He was a midget dressed in pink satin livery with an ostrich plume on his turban."

  "That would certainly make an impression on a kid. Or anyone for that matter."

  "I hope you aren't too disappointed. I think they did away with the midget years ago."

  The valet took our keys and Tristan led me through the doors as if seeing his father was the most natural thing in the world. When Mr. King rose to greet us, the resemblance to his son was striking. He had Tristan's regal bearing, the same aristocratic features and an almost identical smile. But where Tristan was golden, Bradley King was dark. His hair was once jet black but now showed silver at the temples. His eyes were dark chocolate and almost unreadable as they took me in. If my presence at the table was a surprise, he didn't let on. Like Tristan's eyes, his seemed to bore right through me.

  I found myself appraising his body. Under the pinstriped suit were shoulders every bit as broad as his son's, a chest that looked solid and strong, narrow hips that ended in long graceful legs. I couldn't stop myself from wondering if under those perfectly creased pants was a cock as beautiful and talented as his son's. I mentally pinched myself for even going there.

  "Father, this is Raina Harding."

  "Brad King," he said as he took my hand. His grip was more powerful than I had expected but I saw the same elegant King fingers. His smile seemed forced. "I'm happy to meet you, Raina."

  The two men didn't embrace or even shake hands. Tristan hadn't told me how long it had been since he had even talked to his father, but I suspected it had been a while. We sat down, Tristan to my right and Mr. King to my left. The two men faced each other across the small table.

  Their conversation was bland and all business. But it was plain that they followed each other's exploits carefully. Both men were able to converse about the other's triumphs in different financial arenas with ease. I felt quite irrelevant. Mr. King had forced a few polite questions out at the beginning of the meal--where
I was from, where I went to school, that sort of thing--and then turned his frosty attention on his son.

  I picked at the meal in front of me and wondered what Tristan's purpose had been in arranging the meeting. Did he want to impress upon me that his reserve was an inherited trait? I didn’t see much value in that discovery. It changed nothing.

  Tristan put his hand to his coat pocket and pulled out his vibrating phone. "You'll have to excuse me, I need to take this call," he said as he rose from his seat and left the table. Alone with Mr. King, I felt small and childlike. I wanted to dazzle him with some witty conversation but I drew a complete blank and settled for what probably looked like a stupid grin.

  "How well do you know my son?"

  Yikes. I felt a twist in my heart and a tingle between my legs. "We've been seeing each other a few months."

  He went straight for my heart. "Tristan rarely takes the time to introduce me to the young ladies he sees. I take it there's something serious going on?"

  How was I supposed to answer that? I was tempted to tell him that I was the only serious one but thought better of it. "Your son has been very good to me. And to my family."

  Mr. King smirked. "I'm sure my son can afford to be as generous as it pleases him to be."

  I didn't like the implication. "I care very much about Tristan, Mr. King. He's a fine man."

  "He's a fine catch. Especially for . . . someone like you."

  "Someone like me?" I was dressed to the nines, decked with jewels and hadn't mentioned a word about my family's circumstances. Bennington was a respectable school and I was well spoken enough. So what gave me away?

  "Oh, please. You needn't be defensive. I simply meant that Tristan could have any one of dozens of stars or heiresses or even royalty. You seem rather straight forward and down to earth." He took a sip of his wine and continued, "Then again, I hardly know my son. What I know is what I read in the papers. Only not the papers these days. You know what I mean."