The Billionaire's Command (The Silver Cross Club) by Bec Linder Read Free Book Online

gasped again and closed my eyes at the sensations that flooded through my body.
    “Wet and ready,” he said, his voice interrupting the delirious state I had sunk into so quickly. I opened my eyes and met his gaze. He rotated his wrist again and said, “I think I can deduce what it is that you want.”
    “Good work, Sherlock,” I said, because it was easier to make smart remarks than to think about what he was doing to me, and how I was responding. I wasn’t supposed to like this so much.
    “You’re really living up to your name,” he said. “Do you talk back to that sweet old man who just wants you to read him some porn?”
    “No, because he’s sweet,” I said.
    He slid another finger into me and pulsed his hand again, and I was glad I’d had the foresight to hold onto his shoulders, because my knees threatened to give way beneath me. He tightened his left arm around my waist and said, “I’m not going to be sweet to you, but I don’t think you’ll have any complaints. Now stop digging your claws into my shoulders, I’m not going to let you fall.”
    “I don’t have claws,” I protested, but my words came out sounding weak and unconvincing. I believed what I was saying, but the way he kept pressing his hand against me made it hard to put any conviction into my voice.
    “Talons, then,” he said. “Christ, do you pay someone to file them into dagger points?”
    I opened my mouth to respond, but he moved his fingers again, and whatever I had been about to say was wiped clear out of my head. I made a pitiful, helpless whimpering noise and tightened my grip on his shoulders. There was no room for dignity anymore; I just had to focus on staying upright.
    “What a temptation you are,” he said, his fingers moving steadily. “So responsive. You were made to quiver at a man’s touch.” He leaned forward and spoke into my ear, his words a hot puff of breath gusting across my cheek. “How soon will you come for me, sweetheart?”
    I wanted to tell him that I wouldn’t, that I had never come for a client, that every orgasm was faked, and that he wouldn’t be the first to shatter my control. But I couldn’t say any of those things, because I wasn’t sure the last bit was true. My body responded to him in ways I didn’t understand and couldn’t account for, and if he kept touching me like that, I was going to totally embarrass myself.
    Because it would be embarrassing. Losing control like that. I was a professional: calm, cool, and collected. Clients didn’t matter to me. They came and went. Nothing they did affected me. They touched me, and I smiled and cooed at them and pretended to be swept away, but none of it really mattered.
    It didn’t matter. And I held onto that like a totem, something to shelter me from the reality of what I did for a living. As long as they didn’t really touch me, I was safe. I was just doing it for the money.
    But if Turner broke through, if he made me crumble and want him—well, then everything he said was true. I was a slut. A common whore, desperate for a man’s caress.
    I fought it. God knows I tried. I kept my eyes open and stared at him, trying for “defiant” but falling short and landing somewhere around “scared and rebellious” instead. He met my gaze evenly, maintaining steady eye contact even as he alternately rolled my clit in slow circles with his thumb and thrust his fingers in and out of my pussy. I wanted him to break first and look away, and then I would win and be able to maintain some illusion of control, even though my thighs shook and my nipples hardened into tight buds. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me look away first.
    And so I stared at him, forcing my eyes to stay open, as he rubbed my clit faster and I felt the orgasm I both longed for and dreaded rise and crest over me like a wave.
    It tumbled me to shore and dragged me under and back out to sea. I had never felt anything so powerful, such a strong physical sensation