Page 42 of How to Bang a Billionaire

I’d never really paid much attention to my own nipples. Well, who did? My lovers had sometimes. Sort of in the fashion you swing into a motorway service station: very much a waypoint on a journey. But, right then, they were tight and aching, magically transformed beneath the lightest caresses of my own fingers and wired directly to my cock, my arse, all the places I wanted to feel him and be possessed by him.

“OhGodohGod, Caspian, I need more.”

“Do you now?” There was something dark in his voice. Maybe I should have feared it, but I wanted it. The promise of exciting and terrible things sending little shocks of fearful pleasure all the way through me. “Pull on the rings.”

Whoa, I’d meant more touching. Not—

“Hurt yourself for me.”

“Oh no, please…I can’t…” Except somehow the need in him, the rawness of it, meant my hands were already there. “Don’t make me.”

But, of course, I wanted him to make me.

I wanted to be commanded.

“Do it, Arden. Do as I say.”

I was whimpering, gasping, and I’d barely done anything. It was the anticipation, more than anything, knowing what I was going to do. What I was going to choose to do. I liked it rough, sometimes, but it was different when it was somebody else. Pain, that was probably closer to shock, disappearing into pleasure almost as soon as it was recognized.

I squeezed my eyes shut and…tugged. Tugged hard. A metal-bright flash of sensation that tasted hot and coppery and forbidden. Made me yelp and groan, not sure whether I wanted to push into it or pull away or whether it held me bespelled and frozen in an all-feeling moment. A spill of dampness across my stomach that I thought meant I’d come, but thankfully turned out to be just a gesture of exuberance on the part of my cock.

“Ah. God. Arden, my Arden. You’re so good.” Barely audible, Caspian’s words rushing to me in an incoherent flood. “So beautiful.”

He couldn’t see me, of course. But I’d pretty much forgotten.

I was beautiful. I was alive. I was fucking fabulous. Tingly and blissed out and softly full of fading hurt.

“You…you want me to do it again?” I asked with perhaps unbecoming eagerness considering I was seeking permission to torture my own nipples.

He laughed at that. Not his usual laugh, but something rich and deep, full of joy and sex and wickedness. “Oh yes please.”

A hot dread rose up the moment he said it. Kind of a mindfuck. Wanting it and not wanting it, feeling terrified and daring all at the same time. I squirmed, fingers trembling, breath catching. “Ohnonononopleaseno.” And then I did it.

And it was glorious.

Kaleidoscopic free fall: my skin all full of impossible lights and my eyes full of tears. Thighs pushing wantonly wide. Cock slicking precome as if it was monsoon season down there. I wished he could have seen me, hot and wild and spread for him.

“Nrggh,” I said. Not sure if I could bear the awful bliss of it if he told me to do it again.

But he soothed me, murmuring the sweetest nonsense down the phone, telling me how brave I was, how strong, how much he wanted me. It should have been odd, the context, and the contrast, but somehow it seemed all of apiece, his cruelty and his tenderness, his darkness and his light.

“You deserve a reward,” he told me.

“I think…I think I’m already getting one.”

And then we were both laughing, both shaken, the rhythm of our breaths meeting in ways we couldn’t.

He made me touch myself then.

The stubble-rough line of my throat. The sensitive spot beneath my ears. The smooth interior of my forearms. My ribs and sides and flanks, the crease of my groin. The inside of my thighs. The inside of my elbow. The places behind my knees.

Everywhere.

Everywhere but my fucking cock.

My brain was blank and the noises I was making were practically animal and the pleasure felt as pure, as bright as pain, and I wasn’t sure if I loved it or feared it. Maybe both.

Then he said, “Beg me, Arden,” naked just like me.