Sophie (The Boss Book 8)

by Abigail Barnette

  "Could you imagine if they hadn't put in a master bath?" El-Mudad mused. "Hamptons stunner eaten by shark on the way to the bathroom."

  I lifted my chin and replied in a lofty tone, "I'll have you know that I would just hold it."

  He shrugged. "I wasn’t talking about you."

  "Stunner, am I?" Neil put one hand over his heart. "Bless you."

  "I wasn’t talking about you, either." El-Mudad gestured to his body.

  "The bed is small." I kicked off my shoes and jumped onto the king-sized mattress. "We're going to have to sleep close."

  "Which would be lovely, were it not a thousand degrees," Neil grumbled, stalking to the panel on the wall. "Thank god for air conditioning."

  "You know, the people who lived on this island back in the day didn't have air conditioning," I pointed out.

  "There were no people here,” Neil huffed as he brutalized the downward-pointing triangle button with his fingertip. "Only turtles. Didn’t you read the dossier?"

  "No. But I want to know what's up with this grotto thing." I rolled onto my back and lifted my legs, pointing my toes to the ceiling. "That sounds very Playboy Mansion."

  "God, I hope it's not like that." Neil made the face of a man who'd seen the unspeakable.

  El-Mudad pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor. "It was so tacky. And I swear the peacocks shat in there."

  I pressed my fingertips to my forehead. "Of course, you've both been there. Promise that you'll never tell me whatever it was you got up to there."

  "I was there in the eighties, so I assume he had a much better time,” Neil said.

  “They were filming a reality show the few times I was there. Everything was very PG-13." El-Mudad climbed onto the bed, unfastening his fly as he did so. "However, tonight is not. Get your skirt up, Sophie."

  “Ooh! Oui, Monsieur,” I giggled, pulling my skirt up as he commanded. He freed himself from his boxers and knelt between my legs, lazily stroking his semi-hard cock. "Move your panties aside and show me your cunt."

  I raised my knees and let them fall apart, slipping my beige silk panties aside.

  "Good. Touch yourself. With just one finger."

  My hand drifted down my body before he stopped me. "Wet it first."

  I maintained eye contact as I sucked my middle finger into my mouth. When I released it, a string of saliva stretched from my fingertip to my bottom lip.

  "She's so obedient for you," Neil said, unable to hide the slight jealousy in his voice.

  I wondered what that was, that I could submit to El-Mudad without resistance but submission to Neil was most exhilarating when antagonistic. Was it the difference in their personalities? The smaller age gap between El-Mudad and I?

  "Are you going to join us?" Monsieur asked Sir.

  He shook his head slowly. "I think I'd rather watch for now. You're both so beautiful. I’ll use her when you’re finished."

  Monsieur grinned at him before turning back to watch me slowly circle my clit with my middle finger.

  "Focus on your breath," Monsieur said, his tone low and gentle. "As I count, you will inhale deeply and begin to circle your clit. Start at the six o'clock position and move your fingertip counterclockwise; don't reach twelve o'clock before the count of five."

  This was new. My toes curled at his clinical, detailed instructions.

  "Let's begin. One..."

  As he counted, I matched both my breath and my touch to his measured pace. The featherlight touch he allowed me, combined with the aching slowness, were tantalizing now; they would be torture in only a few minutes.

  The pattern he created was designed to make me impatient, to hold me on the very edge of orgasm for as long as possible. It was something Neil particularly enjoyed tormenting me with, as well, but El-Mudad's methods were less ruthless, more elegantly devious. Why use vibrators and punishment threats to control my orgasms when Monsieur could use my own body as an implement of torture? At the apex of my inhalation, he asked me to hold it while I tapped the very tip of my clit as quickly as I could during a count of two. Then, exhaling for six, I reluctantly slid my finger down the other side of my clit in preparation for the next circle, the next cycle. Each time, it became a little more challenging to concentrate, to restrain myself. I imagined the oxygen I took in arcing through my entire body on a loop that brushed fire through my pelvis, and each inhalation brought me close-ish to climax.

  All the while, Monsieur held my gaze with his, moving his hand on his cock at the same measured pace.

  I remembered Sir's hand gripping El-Mudad's cock, making him writhe and sweat. The way Monsieur had pleaded, just as he made me plead now, under my breath, my hips rocking on the mattress.

  "Don't tense, Sophie," Monsieur scolded me softly. "We've discussed this."

  A full-body shiver rippled through me. Oh yes, we had discussed it. Discussed it and worked diligently on it. Monsieur had taken an interest in prolonging and extending my orgasmic state; by not clenching my muscles, the ripples of release didn’t peak, and I could keep going, on and on, before fully climaxing.

  He lifted my foot in his hands, turning it this way and that, making intense eye contact with Sir. “I think tonight she'll learn exactly how long she can endure the pinnacle of her pleasure. And how long I can resist her tight, wet little cunt."

  I flinched at those words.

  Sir noticed. "Do you need lube tonight?"

  My heart sank. There I was, wildly turned on with two men focused solely on my pleasure, and my body was not responding the way it should. Diabetes fucked with my whole body all the time, but the worst was when I felt like a failure because I couldn’t gush like a porn star on a particular day.

  "I believe I forbade you, as your Sir forbade you, from feeling guilty over things you can't control." Monsieur turned to Sir, who'd risen from the sofa to retrieve the lube from our bag. "What should the punishment be if she plans to continue disobeying us?"

  Sir made sure I could read every sadistic option that ran through his mind as he raked his gaze over my body. "Ginger. I’m sure the chefs here have some."

  I gasped. Peeled, fresh ginger root in my ass while Sir spanked me? High on my list of worst punishments ever. But it was so difficult not to blame myself for the quirky way my new pal diabetes complicated my sex life.

  "You must learn to trust us," Monsieur said, squirting the shockingly cold lube generously over my hand, my vulva, and my panties. "If you're not wet enough for our liking, we have other methods. You're lucky that your Sir is only watching tonight and that I will be the one to decide your punishment. Take your hand away."

  Reluctantly, I moved my hand to rest on my lower abdomen.

  "Fix your panties," he ordered.

  The silk clung to my lube-coated vulva.

  "Now, let's begin again."

  This time, as much as I wanted to be a good girl and focus on his voice, my breathing, the right pace, I simply could not. I writhed and whined and ached to touch my bare flesh. Even the drenched silk was too much of a barrier.

  "Bad, disobedient girls don't get the privilege of touching themselves," Monsieur reminded me as I whimpered in frustration.

  "I'll be good, Monsieur. Please." It was useless to beg him. But it felt so good.

  "Now, I want you leave your finger right there," he instructed at the apex of one circle. "Don't move it. Use only the lightest pressure."

  He crawled forward, kicking his shorts aside as he lay between my legs, his face so close to my pussy that I almost couldn't stop myself from rubbing against him. When he spoke, the breath from his lips cooled my slick skin. "Now, when I count down, I want you to clench your beautiful cunt with every number. No moving your finger."

  I could feel my pulse under that finger.

  "Ten," he said, and I swore his voice vibrated through me. I tightened my internal muscles and released, and he clucked his tongue. "Perhaps I was not clear before. You should clench down the number of times I say. Not once wit
h every number."

  That was even more torturous. With every clutch around emptiness, the want in me ramped up. I would never be a patient sub. That was to their advantage. It was so much easier to torment a greedy person than someone with no expectation.

  By the time he reached five, it was nearly impossible to hold still. At three, I made the mistake of shifting my hips just a little.

  "Oh no, Sophie!" He shook his head in feigned disappointment. "We'll have to start all over."

  I would come. I wouldn't be able to resist.

  Of course, resisting might not have been the point. I moaned and whimpered my way through another ten, nine, eight, and at seven, it was no longer avoidable.

  "Monsieur, I'm going to come!" I gasped, my pelvis lifting from the bed as my impending orgasm built to its breaking point.

  "No, you won't." It was Sir who said it, and my body automatically obeyed.

  "It seems I must be crueler to you, Sophie," Monsieur laughed. "You might be more inclined to obey me."

  He waited until I could continue without climaxing, another torturous count that finally, finally reached three again. My body shook from the effort it took not to writhe. Sweat beaded on my forehead. Delaying orgasm was no longer my primary concern; now, I fought my body's will to remain immobile even under intense stimuli. I lost track of time. I lost track of where we even were.

  None of that mattered, anyway. I didn't need to worry about pesky details like geographical or chronological location; Monsieur and Sir would tell me where I needed to be and when. They would tell me what I should be doing, wearing, who I should be.

  "You've done so well," Monsieur told me, kneading my belly with one warm hand after he'd finally reached the last number. "You're allowed to come, once I'm inside of you."

  He didn't even bother to remove my panties. He sat back on his heels, dragged me onto his lap, pushed the sodden material aside, and drove into my body.

  Though I'd needed lube to get started, I didn't need it anymore, not after Monsieur’s little exercise to keep me needy and unfulfilled for as long as he could stand it. Our skin stuck together wetly from stomach to thighs. He rocked with me in his lap, whispering, "Come for me, sweet Sophie," against my ear, while my moans grew loud enough to be shouts. Our bodies’ tight fit pressed his brutally hard cock firmly against my g-spot and sawed the base of him over my clit with every short stroke. He guided my arms around his neck, and I clung to him as the pleasure I'd been so irritatingly denied swelled and swelled, finally bursting in an orgasm that made spots appear when I opened my eyes.

  Monsieur lifted me off his cock. "Hands and knees, please. I'm going to finish now."

  I was slightly disappointed that it wasn't a longer game, but I had no say in the matter. I had no sooner gotten into position than he jerked my panties down to my knees, straddled my calves, and thrust into me with a force that knocked the wind from my lungs. I gasped in shock and pain, and that gasp turned into an ascending cry as each stroke became rougher, as if he had a personal vendetta against my pussy. I was sore, tight, and highly sensitive.

  Luckily—or not, because the pain was ecstatic—he didn't last long. He picked up speed, the slap of his pelvis against my ass exquisitely vulgar in the quiet of the room. He crushed my hips in his grasp, jerking me off my knees for the final few thrusts before flooding me with hot bursts. He groaned loudly in relief, sweat dripping onto my back.

  "Are you quite finished with her?" Sir said from his chair in the corner.

  I'd almost forgotten he was there, so lost had I been in Monsieur’s wicked game.

  Monsieur gave my ass a slap, then pushed me flat to the mattress and rolled away from me. “Use her if you'd like."

  Sir’s enormous cock lay against his belly, and he stroked it steadily. Judging by the flush on his cheeks and down his throat, he wasn't quite so far behind Monsieur.

  Sir snapped his fingers. "You should already be moving to serve me, Sophie."

  I rose on exhausted, trembling legs and approached him, cum dripping down the insides of my thighs.

  "Get on your knees," Sir instructed, sitting up on the edge of the cushion. I did as I was told and even opened my mouth with the expectation that he would fill it with cock. Instead, he held me by the hair. My open mouth poised just over the tip of his cock as he pumped it through his fist. With a guttural growl, he shot thick, hot ropes across my face and into my mouth. He held me there for a moment, gasping, dripping, then lifted my head and tilted my chin back.

  "Look at how pretty you are." He smeared the fluid roughly around my face, into my hair, and finally jammed two fingers into my mouth, so far back that I gagged. “How does it taste?”

  I coughed and drooled and tried to swallow before choking out, "I love the way your cum tastes, Sir."

  "Good. Because you'll be getting so much more of it." He reached down and plunged his fingers into my cunt. Then he brought them to my mouth and, again, forced them inside. "And his."

  At that very moment, I couldn't think of anything I could possibly ever want more.

  Our first full day on the island began with the most amazing breakfast on the beach, which everyone but Molly and me called a picnic.

  Where we came from, picnics did not happen on long buffet tables staffed by uniformed chefs.

  The mountains of food were roughly the same quantity as a small family gathering back home, but with dishes my family would never touch. Smoked salmon and eggs baked in avocado halves, scallops benedict, and mounds of fruit, some of which I barely recognized.

  Neil leaned back in his dining chair—not attached to the “picnic table” and therefore a matter of semantic argument for nearly half the meal—and sipped from his non-alcoholic mimosa. “This is a perfect way to start the day.”

  “Unless you overeat and need a nap,” I observed, nodding toward El-Mudad, who’d abandoned us for a shady hammock after devouring a seemingly never-ending serving of lobster breakfast tacos.

  “His metabolism will fail him one day,” Neil vowed. “It must.”

  A loud shriek from the water’s edge caught my attention immediately. Water and Olivia were a combination I hated. I’d heard way too many horror stories in boater’s safety class when I was twelve. But everyone on the shore seemed all right; the shriek had come from Molly, who’d just gotten dunked under the waves by Amal further out.

  “That’s not deep, right?” I asked nervously. “And like, stingrays, they don’t actually sting, do they?”

  “I don’t think any fish is going to be remotely tempted to remain in the area with the amount of noise they’re making.” Neil tilted his head and scrutinized my expression. “We’re on vacation, and you’re as tense as a sinner on Sunday morning.”

  “I just...I hope they’re shuffling their feet.” I wished I’d never found out how the Crocodile Hunter died. It was just one more nightmare scenario for the spool of worry constantly winding in my mind.

  Neil nodded thoughtfully but didn’t respond for a few seconds. “El-Mudad and I were discussing taking the girls out for an excursion. If you don’t mind being left out, perhaps you’d like to stay here? Have some alone time?”

  “It depends on the excursion.” I raised an eyebrow and pointed at an approaching catamaran. “I assume it has to do with that?”

  “Dad!” Rashida called to get Neil’s attention. “The boat!”

  “It’s a...boat excursion?” The craft that approached was about the size of the recreational fishing boats that dotted the marinas around the Hamptons, but somehow, the sea seemed wider here than it did at home, probably because we could see more of the horizon.

  “We’re taking the girls snorkeling,” Neil said breezily, before calling, “El-Mudad! The boat is here!”

  I glanced over in time to see the hammock flip and spill El-Mudad onto the sand.

  “He is beauty, he is grace, he has fallen on his face,” I mused before turning back to Neil. “Wait, snorkeling? Like, out in the water?”

 
; His lips tilted with a suppressed smile. “It wouldn’t be much fun on dry land.”

  “Stop,” I warned. “I’m serious. Isn’t Olivia too young to snorkel? Does she even know how to breathe through the thing?”

  “Through the snorkel?” Neil raised his eyebrows. “The sole piece of equipment the activity is named for?”

  “I’m not kidding. Stop being cute.”

  He finally took me seriously. “Olivia is around the age I first took Emma. She’ll be fine. You know she understands breathing, she does all those yoga workout videos with you.”

  “Okay, that does make me feel a little better about it.” I watched as Molly grabbed her towel and followed Rashida to the docks. “But she also watches Finding Dory and The Little Mermaid, both of which have led her to believe some fucked up things about the sea.”

  Amal approached us, tying her beach towel around her waist.

  “Are you going with us?” Neil asked her.

  She scrunched her nose. “No, thank you. If the rest of you want to be shark bait…”

  “Exactly! See, Neil? Sharks.” My mind boggled. The man who’d had the nursery rewired, so all of the outlets were four feet up the wall, was just going to take our precious ward into the ocean full of sharks.

  And he looked at me like I was the one being ridiculous. “There aren’t going to be any sharks. And if there are, this is the Caribbean. The sharks here are notoriously chill.”

  Amal made the face of someone gripped in the throes of increasingly urgent digestive need. “Did you just say ‘chill?’”

  “Chill sharks?” I folded my arms across my chest and lifted my chin. Time to play my ace. “Tell that to the shark that ate Ian and Penny’s neighbor.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s—it wasn’t their neighbor, it was their neighbor’s dog. And I’m not sure I even believe that story,” Neil snapped. With a calming pause, he went on. “Please, trust me. This is a wonderful experience for Olivia to have. She will be safe with me. I promise.”

  I sighed, still not entirely comforted. “That’s hard to argue with.”

  From the docks, El-Mudad shouted, “Are you coming?”