Page 486 of The Morally Grey Billionaires Boxset

Mira

The camisole strap splits. He does the same to the other. The lacy fabric slithers down my chest and stays suspended—held up only by my nipples, which are saluting at him. They’re so hard, and my breasts are so heavy, I feel weighed down. I reach up to tug off the fabric, but he clicks his tongue.

"Second rule: you’ll do everything I ask."

"Like I don’t already."

"Third rule, if you talk back, you’ll be spanked."

I swallow. The fading palm prints on my butt twinge in response. My pussy clenches down, and I know I’m already making a mess between my legs.

"Fourth rule—" He slides the knife under the waistband of my sleep shorts. He flicks his wrist, and cuts through the fabric. Does the same on the other side. He places the knife down on the table with care. His every movement is restrained, controlled. His fingers are steady—unlike mine, which tremble with need. And when he turns to face me, there’s almost a bored look on his face. Ohmigod, do I find that hot? I do find that hot. The fact that I’m turned on, but he seems so indifferent to the million little butterflies that take flight in my belly, only intensifies my arousal.

I shuffle my feet, begin to rub my thighs together, but he shakes his head. "You can’t alleviate your need."

"But I itch there."

"Good."

"Just a little chafe of my thighs," I whine.

"Nope."

"It’ll only take a second." I flutter my eyelashes at him. "I’ll slide in a finger and touch myself once. Just once."

"No, Belle." His voice is hard. "You cannot touch yourself. You cannot get yourself off. You definitely will not allow yourself to come."

"But why?" I pout. "What harm can it do?"

"Do you trust me on this?"

As soon as the words are out, his feature grow tense.

Trust. That word is like a boulder between us.

I want him to have enough faith in me to tell me about his past. But do I have enough confidence in him, enough to hand myself over to him?

To entrust my orgasms to his expertise? Do I trust him enough to spend the next few days with him doing everything he wants?

Allowing him to do what he wants with me?

Not sassing him? Maybe not the last… But the rest?

Yeah, I do. He may not be ready to talk about himself, but with everything he does, we come closer.

The more time we spend together, the more layers I unearth.

And everything I find out about him only makes me want him more.

So, his question was a rhetorical one, in all likelihood.

Still, when I nod, his chest rises and falls.

His shoulder muscles relax. Huh? Was he tense?

Did he think I would refuse him? And if I had, what would he have done?

Would he have convinced me otherwise? Would he have spanked me, then kissed me and brought me to the edge, only to hold back my orgasm again?

Probably. And the specter of it is not altogether unwelcome.

“Choose a safe word.”

“A safe word?”

"If you need me to stop at any time, you only have to use it."

I bite the inside of my cheek, “I don’t think I’d ever want you to stop whatever it is you're doing.”

His eyes flash, then he cups my cheek. “Much as I am tempted to agree, it would be in your interest to choose one.”

I take in the intensity on his features then nod. And don’t have to think twice when I say, “Fleabag.”

“Your safe word is Fleabag?”

“The series with Andrew Scott as the Hot Priest.”

“The Hot Priest?” He frowns.

I peek at him from under my eyelashes. “’Course, you’re hotter, Eddie.”

I must say the right thing because an expression of satisfaction crosses his face. "What, am I going to do with you?" His throat moves as he swallows.

"Anything you want."

"Anything?"

My heart beats so loudly, it drowns out all other thoughts. "Anything."

I expect him to pull off my torn clothes, then throw me to the ground and ravish me. Instead, he peels my camisole down my arms, then lowers my shorts until both pieces are in a puddle around my ankles.

He grips my hips, lifts me up, kicks the fallen clothes aside, then sets me down.

He does it in one uninterrupted move. His biceps bulge, his shoulders turn into rocks of delightful muscle, and his chest swells, but he doesn’t breathe heavily.

Or show any sign of strain on his face. Of course, he’s strong.

I’ve seen the cut of his physique, felt it’s impossible wall-like planes dig into my softer curves, but just how powerful comes home to me with this maneuver.

After the years of laughs and jeers in school, and the averted glances of my half-sisters, the graffiti on my locker calling me 'fat face,' the fact that he can handle me like I weigh nothing…is the most erotic thing I’ve ever encountered. And now, he’s going to touch me all over.

He’s going to fondle my tits, and squeeze my hips, and pinch my clit, and oh god, I want him to.

I want him to bite my flesh, mark my thighs, rub the throbbing space between my legs and bring me to the edge.

I draw in a breath, and when his scent sinks into my blood and his heat cocoons me like the soothing steam of a sauna, I sway toward him.

He steadies me with a hand on my shoulder, then steps back.

He reaches for his phone and swipes the screen.

The haunting strains of something classical, something deep and complex and so soul stirring, it pours liquid heat through my veins, fills the space.

Another sweep and the lights dim. He places his phone down on the island and holds out his hand. "Dance with me."

As if in a dream, I place my palm in his, the other on his shoulder.

He grips my hip with his big hand, the fingers so long and thick, they seem to cover most of my back.

And no, my waist isn’t the slimmest, and my hips are wide.

I’ve tried to hide my figure—or lack of one—my entire life.

But he seems to revel in my softness. He guides me across to the space in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Outside, the dark expanse of the water is broken by the lights of ships in the distance, snowflakes float down in a dance almost as sensuous as the one he leads me through.

The music flows over me. He holds me close as we move around the room.

His hold on me is sure, his every step confident, yet so light I feel like I’m floating.

He holds my gaze, and his own is intense, but there’s also a softness around the eyes.

Something that indicates he’s at peace. Like he’s finally coming into himself.

It’s why he brought me here. He might not have said it aloud—or even admitted it to himself—but having me here is like giving me an insight into his personality without speaking.

It’s a very Edward move. Dominant and sure and also, so passionate.

So emotional. Like this song. The notes rise in crescendo, and tears prick the backs of my eyes.

When the song fades away, he slows to a stop but doesn’t release me. "You’re crying." He bends and licks the tear drops that skates down my cheek. "Why are you crying?"