Bound for Him: (A Billionaire BDSM Boxed Set - 9 Stories) the Bacchanalia Collection

by Juniper Leigh

  “Look at me,” Mr. Cross demanded, pulling out of my throbbing cunt so that I could turn around to face him. We gazed at one another as he scooped me up underneath my bottom and brought me down off of the tabletop. He then sat down in his chair and drew me toward him. I straddled him, taking his engorged cock into my hand to direct it into me. He thrust in even as I sat down with my full weight and we came together with a cry in unison. Bending forward he kissed my neck as I rode him, rocking my hips back and forth, reveling in the friction of his pubic bone against my clit. He curled his fingers around my throat and squeezed, pounding viciously into me over and over. He came with a shudder, his entire body convulsing before coming to a rest as he caught his breath.

  I smiled and kissed him, and he lifted me up off of him and laid me down on the thick area rug, spreading my legs so that he could lap at my pulsing clitoris. He licked deftly, quickly, and with great purpose. He didn’t tease the way sweet Emma had teased. Instead he sucked at my clit until I felt the wave of my orgasm come crashing into shore. I cried out, my body rocked with spasms, and had to push his head away, so tender was I.

  He crawled up to me and held me in his arms. And we were so exposed, two naked lovers with their faces bared in a room full of the masked.

  *

  The following morning I awoke late in the afternoon, having missed my brunch shift all but entirely at the restaurant, my cell phone all abuzz with voicemails and text messages from frustrated, angry or concerned co-workers.

  “Shit,” I said, throwing the covers off and darting around the room in a chaotic attempt to get myself cleaned up and presentable for work. I washed my face, brushed my teeth and tied my hair up into a high ponytail. I tugged on the customary black uniform that was required for my restaurant, tossed my phone into my purse, and threw open the front door of my apartment.

  “Hello, Fiona,” Michael Cross said, standing there with sweet little Emma from the Bacchanal Club. “I trust you slept well.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m so terribly late,” I began, trying to push past them. But Mr. Cross didn’t move. Instead, he gently ushered me back inside.

  “You don’t need to work there anymore,” He said, and I blinked owlishly. “Come inside,” he continued. “And I’ll tell you what I propose.”

  Part Three: The Proposition

  “I have a proposition for you, Ms. Buchanan.”

  Michael Cross stood in my cramped foyer, his arms crossed over the broad expanse of his chest. Emma – loyal Bacchanal Club employee and my erstwhile caretaker – hovered at his elbow, a specter of blond curls in the afternoon sunlight.

  “I’m so late, Mr. Cross,” I protested.

  “Just hear him out, Fiona,” Emma gently intoned, standing up on tiptoe to be seen around Michael’s significant frame.

  I heaved a sigh of concession, and hung my purse on the closet door before gesturing toward the living room, inviting them in. “Can I get you guys some tea or something?” I offered, not even one hundred percent confident that I had any tea in the house. I followed them into my narrow living space that boasted a love seat and ottoman parked in front of a television that was much too large for the room. I watched Michael appraise the place impassively: oil paintings without frames hung from nails in the exposed brick, knick knacks and colored scarves draped over every available surface, and more throw pillows than any one person should rightfully own. The room felt shabby and juvenile when he was standing in it, clad in a tuxedo without a tie, the top buttons left open, lending him an air of casual elegance.

  Emma took a seat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap, and I dropped down onto the cushions beside her, too exhausted from the last few nights to carry myself with any dignity. Michael Cross remained standing.

  “I know you’ll think that this is rather sudden,” he began, pacing across the hardwood, “but I’ve given it a great deal of thought.” He paused, angling his limpid brown eyes on me, and I couldn’t help but smile up at him. “I want you to come live at the Club.”

  My brows shot up high in question, and I glanced back and forth between them. Emma beamed, clapping her hands quickly and quietly together. “What?” I asked, barely able to believe my ears.

  “He said he wants you to—”

  “I heard him, Emma,” I said, perhaps a little more sharply than I’d intended, and she wilted slightly where she sat. “I just mean – why? I didn’t even know that there was somewhere to live at the club. And I’m sure that would drive Rousseau positively mad.”

  “Madame Rousseau answers to me,” Michael said, and I gave a slow nod of my head as I processed everything.

  “So,” I began, “you own the Bacchanal Club, then.”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “I don’t make a secret of it, but it’s easier to fade into the crowd with the rest of our clientele. The Club is my vision, a place where men and women can come to enjoy the very finest food, the best wine money can buy, and the most beautiful people.” He paused then, and I straightened slightly under the weight of his gaze. “I myself live in the apartments above the club. But you would have your own space.”

  I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees and propping my chin up in my hands. “So, you’re offering me a nicer apartment…”

  “And a job. You would be on staff at the club.”

  “On staff,” I repeated, canting my head to the side.

  “Like me!” Emma offered, a bright burst of light in the dimly lit space. Michael smiled fondly at her and gave a nod of his head.

  “I asked Emma to live at the club under similar circumstances,” he explained. I looked at her then, and recalled how she had gone down on me with such tenderness, such enthusiasm, and longed to reach out to touch her.

  “So you two were…” I gestured between them, and they looked at one another and I could see great affection pass between them. But whatever lust there may have been had long since evaporated.

  “Yes, at first, many years ago,” Michael confirmed.

  “But ultimately,” Emma said, “I’m more for the ladies.” They smiled at one another again, and I just sort of shook my head.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t think I really understand what you’re asking me to do.” I rubbed at my eyes, thinking that this must all be some sort of weird dream. A millionaire had walked into my shabby little apartment and invited me to take up residence in the apartments over Manhattan’s most elite club, a club that provided a true bacchanalian feast to it’s patrons, replete with a bevy of eager lovers. “I’m not sure I’m interested in being prostituted to your guests.”

  “That wouldn’t happen,” Michael said, holding up both hands in front of him as though he could physically block that train of thought. “You wouldn’t be required to engage with anyone, under any circumstances, unless you chose to. And that includes me.”

  I nodded slowly. “So, I would get to live at the club, and serve at the club, and would be required to do nothing that I didn’t want to do.” It all sounded too good to be true. I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the catch?”

  “No catch,” he said. “But you will be required to keep writing.”

  I sat up straight, my eyes wide as saucers. “Why?”

  Michael Cross cast a meaningful glance over to Emma, who smiled a thin sort of smile. “Well,” he began, “I saw you several months ago. You did a reading at your Alma Mater.” I recalled that reading. I shared a selection of poems from a collection I’d been putting together, hoping to attract the attention of an agent or publisher, but attracting the attention of no one at all. Well, at least that’s what I’d thought. “It was your writing that first drew me to you,” he said. “And I am on the board of the university, so… it was fairly simple to hunt you down.”

  “You hunted me down,” I repeated, feeling at once flattered and slightly put off by the fact that he had known who I was for months and I had only just learned his name the day before.

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “It
was your voice,” he said. “And your eyes.” He came over to me and stared down into my face even as he lifted a hand to trail his fingertips lightly over the slope of my cheek. “I have admired you from the moment I first laid eyes on you, but I was hooked the first time I heard you read.”

  A silence lapsed between us as I gazed up into his face, his full lips curled upward in the faintest hint of a smile. Finally, I said: “I’m not giving up this place. Just in case.” And the smile broadened into a full, dimpled grin.

  “Very good. Shall we go? There’s a limo waiting downstairs.”

  *

  When we arrived at the Bacchanal Club, I was led to a private elevator and taken up to the twelfth floor, whereupon I was handed a key and told that the entire floor was mine. My heart fluttered as I pushed into the room, and turned over in delight when I saw the space: the foyer boasted marble flooring, and opened up into a sunken living room complete with a fire pit and fully stocked bar. Everything was modern, but elegant, with crisp lines and blocks of color, white and gold. The kitchen was large and well appointed, the refrigerator full to bursting with everything I could need to prepare a gourmet feast. A spiral staircase led to a second floor with a carpeted master bedroom and full bath with a Jacuzzi tub. I had never had so much space to myself in my entire life. I was positively giddy.

  “Do you like it?” Michael asked, and I threw myself into his arms, squeezing him close. He chuckled, a beautiful, reverberant sound that buzzed in the hollow of his chest.

  “I love it.”

  He bent to kiss me and my lips met his with hunger and drive, and he lifted me up so that I could curl my legs around his waist. He carried me into the bedroom and laid me out on the plush white linens of the bed, over which hung an arched canopy. I was still dressed in my serving uniform, and I felt like a dirty little thing, out of place amongst the grandeur of the apartment. Fortunately for me, Mr. Cross began to undo the buttons of my black shirt, slowly and with great relish, the intention of which was, I could only assume, to relieve me of the garment altogether. And permanently.

  I turned my head, catching a glimpse of Emma as she lingered in the doorway, unabashed, watching this intimate moment. With one curled finger, I beckoned her forward, and she came. “Draw us a bath, would you?” I asked, and she looked ever so slightly deflated. “For the three of us,” I amended, and she brightened instantly.

  My shirt fell open and Michael turned his attention to my pants, which he undid and began to slide down over my thighs. I sat upright and reached behind my back to unclasp my bra, allowing my considerable bosom to burst free. He leaned forward and ran his tongue in slow circles around one of my nipples; I allowed my head to drop back, pushing my chest forward to meet his mouth.

  After a few moments, we both sat upright and wordlessly slid from the bed, padding silently over the carpeting and into the bathroom that was already warm with steam from the tub. Emma sat on the lip of the tub, clad now only in her panties, mixing lavender oils into the water. Everything was warm and sweet, including the smile she sent my way when I entered the room.

  We didn’t say anything, none of us, as Emma came forward and kissed me, full of wanting. When she pulled away, I saw Michael slip out of his tuxedo jacket, and tug the dress shirt over his head before hopping up onto a marble counter to watch us.

  Emma slid my panties down even as she sent a series of kisses to flutter over my neck and collarbone. I followed her lead and slid her underwear off as well, enjoying the touch of her smooth, flawless skin beneath my fingertips. We stepped away from our discarded garments and she led me to the bath. I stepped in gingerly, cautious of the heat, and sank down into the steaming hot water.

  “Mmm,” I hummed, all of my doubts and fears pacified. “This is wonderful.” Emma sat down once more on the lip of the tub and reached into the water, trailing a finger down over the slope of my breasts, past the valley of my belly and down into crevice between my legs. She found my clit and began to rub in gentle, rhythmic circles. “Get in with me,” I breathed, and she stepped immediately into the tub. It was a sizable space, but I shifted to make room for her between my legs. She turned and leaned back against me, her head to coming to rest against my shoulder, her hand immediately homing in on my pulsing clit. She began to rub me again, and my eyes came to a close as I ran my hands over her breasts, sweet and perky as summer peaches. One hand stayed there, squeezing one of her nipples, while the other traveled down, down, and found her hairless entrance. I slowly slid my middle finger into her, finding it slick with her excitement, and drew it in and out, in and out as she continued to finger my clit.

  I cast a glance over to Michael, who watched us with his lips slightly parted, his cock in his hands. He was jerking off slowly, and the sight of his turgid manhood only heightened my excitement.

  Emma began to gyrate against me as I probed her with both my middle and index finger. She made beautiful noises, gasps punctuated by little high-pitched moans, the sound of which was sexier than anything else in the room. Without warning, she turned, pulling away from me, and knelt half out of the water. She kissed me, her tongue an intrepid explorer, her fingers full of purpose as they stroked me in quick, insistent circles. “I want to make you come,” she whispered, her voice husky. “I want to feel it.” I arched my back, ready to happily comply, when Michael said, “Stop.”

  My eyes flew open and I saw Emma shoot him a glare full of frustration and reproach. But he didn’t seem to notice her indignation. “Get out of the water,” he commanded, and she complied, dripping onto a towel she’d laid down on the marble floor. I was not so quick to obey his every command.

  “We were nearly finished,” I said, writhing in the discomfort of being denied my orgasm.

  “I understand that, Ms. Buchanan,” he said, his head canted to the side, nude and glistening, with his cock at full attention. “Nevertheless, you heard what I said.”

  “But I—”

  “Get out of the water.” His tone was harsh this time, and I rose to my feet, the bathwater with lavender oils running down over my body as I stood. I stepped out, crossing my arms in front of me and waited with one hip jutting out to the side. I breathed in the steamy sweet air of the room and arched a brow at him, waiting for his next command.

  He moved forward, toward Emma, but never took his eyes off of me, not even as he kissed her, not even as she closed her eyes to kiss him back. They parted and he, handling her rather violently, grabbed her tits in his hands and squeezed until she groaned. He pushed her away and she dropped to her hands and knees on the marble, her legs spread and bearing all to him. “Lay down in front of her,” he said to me, and I complied, the marble cool against my skin. I allowed my knees to rest outward, opening myself up like a lotus, even as Michael knelt behind Emma. Taking his cock in his hand, he thrust it into her with one swift movement, plunging the full length of himself into her awaiting orifice. She cried out and he grabbed her by the hair, pulling her up so that her back was arched, so I could see her breasts bounce with each brutal thrust.

  “Make her come,” he growled into her ear, and shoved her face towards my waiting pussy. She moaned even as her tongue met my clit, and she moaned again when her lips encircled it and she began to suck. The sensation of her humming sent chills through me. She lapped at my clit with a desperate hunger, sliding two fingers into my wet and waiting cunt. She thrust into me as he thrust into her and when I opened my eyes to watch him fuck her, his gaze was locked on me and I smiled and moved my hips in time with Emma’s rhythm, in time with Michael’s.

  I gasped, feeling the tension mount throughout my entire body and I froze as the blissful wave of release broke and I bucked my hips, crying out that I was coming, that I was released.

  Michael ceased his thrusting then, pulling out of Emma still stiff with his desire. She scooted up and leaned her head against my chest, and I in turn put my arm around her, feeling the movements of her tending to herself, rubbing herself until her whole body was wracked
with her orgasm.

  I looked up at Michael who towered over us as he wrapped a towel around his waist. “What about you?” I asked. He grinned down at me.

  “Tonight,” he said.

  *

  I didn’t even arrive at the party until after the meal had been cleared away. The aestheticians had come up to my rooms and had curled my hair and pinned it up, allowing a few inky black tendrils to come down and frame my face. They painted my lips a bright blood red and lined my eyes with kohl and silver dust. I chose to wear nothing at all, save for a series of beautifully bejeweled chains around my neck, and bangles around my wrists. The jewelry and a pair of black heels were all I needed to feel ready for whatever the evening had in store.

  Even though it was only my third night in the main hall, I felt comforted by the black and red damask and rich velvets that decorated the space, that warmed it and made it feel safe and private. I walked slowly around the room, immediately identifying Michael, despite his black mask, by the way he had his gaze locked on me. He was already hard, that much I could tell even through the fabric of his tuxedo pants. When he finally approached me, he slid one deft finger between my legs, dipping it into me with confident command. This was his greeting and I leaned into him, welcoming him.

  “I want you to be the feature of the evening,” he whispered. “I want everyone to see you as I see you.”

  I nodded silently as he removed his finger from my slick, velvety entrance and licked away my juices. He led me over to the far side of the room in front of a glowing fireplace, in the midst of plush love seats and armchairs. A chain was lowered down from overhead; attached to it were two leather restraints. Michael took my wrists and cuffed them in before the chain was raised up once more, and my arms with it. With both hands high over my head, the chain went up, up until I was standing on tiptoe. Even on tiptoe, Mr. Cross towered over me, and he pressed a tender kiss to the line of my jaw before prying my lips open with his fingers. He put a ball gag into my mouth and secured it behind my head, my jaw aching with the size of it.