“But first, touch my mark on you,” he says, and his words carry a hunger that echoes in my mind like a damn speaker.
The cool air of the office raises goosebumps on my exposed skin, but I follow his command and raise my hand to the mark he burned into my skin, the symbol clearer than ever now that it’s fully healed, and its meaning as well. I am his. His to do whatever he wants with.
“Good, little curse,” he whispers in a way that just made a wet mess between my thighs.
I reach behind my back to unhook my bra, hating how my nipples have hardened in the cool air—or from something else I refuse to acknowledge. The fabric slips away, and I let it drop.
"Domaine de la Romanée-Conti, 1945," Ares says, his voice softer now. "Just over $558,000. Only 600 bottles ever produced." He leans forward, his hazel eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Do you know why these wines are so valuable, Brynn? It's not just age or taste. It's scarcity. Uniqueness." His gaze travels over my body, taking his time to admire every inch. "The things we can never replace are the ones we value most."
Now I stand nearly naked before him, just a scrap of fabric between his gaze and my complete exposure. My skin prickles with goosebumps that have nothing to do with the cold. Shame and arousal battle within me, and I hate that the latter is winning.
The intensity of his gaze is too much right now, and I feel like I’m fucking melting in front of him, which makes me continue swaying my body against the chair as sensually as I can, following the music and doing my best to avoid eye contact.
I’m not usually shy, but being in the spotlight makes me feel more vulnerable than ever. The scars on my body seem more evident than ever, to the point I’m starting to think he’s looking directly at them.
My moves become more restrained, and I suddenly find myself trying to cover myself rather than doing what he asked and putting on a show for him.
Besides, I keep avoiding taking my panties off, because the look in his eyes tells me nothing good will follow. Maybe just something that will have me melting with pleasure, but definitely nothing good.
“Now touch yourself.” He smiles again, this time a lot wider, and a lot more convinced that I’m going to follow through.
The fuck I will.
“This is enough,” I mutter, trying to get up from the chair.
But I don’t make it to my feet before his voice fills the room. “Sit! Now!”
I might be brave, but I’m not a fool, so I’m back straddling the chair's back.
"Cheval Blanc, 1947," he continues. Though his voice has changed, grown huskier. "Perfect growing conditions, not replicated since. $304,375 at auction." He shifts in his seat, and I feel a sick thrill of power knowing I'm affecting him despite his controlled exterior.
Fuck, those last two were expensive.
That makes me not wait for him to tell me twice, and I reach into my panties, slowly touching the nerve endings that are already crying for him.
But of course, he isn’t satisfied just with this. “Push the fabric. I want to see you touch your tight cunt for me.”
I swallow the knot in my throat, and my attention goes directly to him as everything around me stops, and I’m trying to decide between rebellion and pleasure.
But there isn’t much to decide anyway, because with him, the pleasure numbs any other senses.
“Come on, little curse. Or do you want me to keep counting the bottles?”
I definitely don’t want to hear how many millions I broke during my fit. I know it’s ultimately his fault, but I could’ve at least thought about the price. I knew deep down they were expensive, still, I wasn’t expecting house-worth expensive.
With a final effort, I push the fabric aside, the cold in the room, hitting me like a slap across my face.
“So fucking amazing,” he mutters under his breath. That somehow makes me even wetter, and I have nothing else to do but move my fingers through the wetness of my pussy.
It’s not like when he’s touching me, but knowing his eyes are there, studying my every move, intensifies everything. I move slowly. Too slow for his liking and maybe too slow for my own, but the way he takes another drag out of that cigar so casually, like he’s been waiting for this all along, makes me want to stop just to spite him.
Still, I don’t. I keep on going, dragging every nerve to its limit. My own liquids coat my fingers as I watch his breath grow more intense. Now he’s really getting the spectacle he wanted. As I shamelessly touch myself, stroke after stroke, building a pleasure that comes not just from my fingers but also from the way I know he needs me.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, running his tongue across his thick lips, and suddenly a flood of ideas fill my mind about what he could do with those. It only makes me that much wetter, thatmuch weaker, when it comes to him. Like I’m giving him all the power, and he grows stronger. So strong that his next command makes me realize I might not have any self-esteem left after this.
“Crawl to me.”
fourteen
