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Maybe it did!
We abandoned his guard there at the door in an alcove, shutting the door to that entry room. I should’ve been more impressed by the lavish room, its numerous row of windows overlooking the city. But Luc made it hard to focus on anything but him.
He guided me along, arm about my waist as my fur coat sank down from her shoulders, hanging from my elbows. He took me over towards the large leather sofa and stopped, looking me over, inspecting me again.
“Exquisite,” he remarked. “I am taken with your beauty, my ex-dancer. Now tell me. What is your real name?” he asked, like so many other men had before him, though they had so much less going for them than him.
For one, I’d never been so turned on in my life.
My lips dropped open, and for a second I wanted to delay it. To not tell him, to make him want to punish me all the more.
But more than teasing him, I wanted him to take me, and my real name tumbled forth despite any caution or worry I should’ve felt.
“Alice,” I murmured.
He repeated my name, making it sound so much sexier in his gruff, gravelly voice. He let his hard, strong hands slide up beneath the fur coat, pulling it slowly from my arms and leaving me nude but for my panties and heels.
“Bend over the end of the sofa, Alice,” he told me, tossing the coat to the floor out of the way, treating such an expensive item with casual dismissal as all his attention was reserved for me.
“Nobody can break one of my rules without consequence,” he explained so evenly. “Not even a stunning beauty like you,” he said, reaching up to cup my cheek and stroke his thumb along my lower lip.
I suckled it in, looking up at him with wide eyes that betrayed a little of my fear and my fire. My desire to argue and tell him he was wrong, that I needed my job back. That I never would’ve broken the rules if I hadn’t been scared or known he was the boss.
But it would’ve been a lie.
I wasn’t scared.
I just wanted him inside me. And if bending over the sofa might get me his cock faster...
I pulled back slightly, looking to the armrest, then back to him.
“What are you going to do to me?”
“Just do, don’t ask,” he said to me in that even tempered voice of his that betrayed no unpleasantness. No mistrust. He shrugged his blazer off his shoulders, and slipped it slowly off. It left him in his fine shirt and tie, with that holster dangling from one side, showing the gleaming metal of his handgun.
He carefully draped his jacket over the coffee table and loosened his tie, watching me all the while he removed it.
My eyes dropped to the gun, taking it in silently before I looked back to the end of the sofa. I was already so bare, in only my black Maryjane platform heels and the dripping panties, but I felt even more exposed as I turned, walking the small distance towards the end of the couch, resting my forearms on it, tilted at a 90 degree angle as I watched him intently.
He shed his expensive, European cut tie, removed the holster that held that weapon and set both aside on the opulent chair that waited there. His eyes upon me all the while he undid his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows, showing those thick, bulging forearms of his, rippling with veins and muscles.
He finished finally, and made his way over to me.
“It’s okay,” he said, stroking my hair the arch of my spine, being so gentle as his other hand cupped my ass cheeks and gave them a squeeze.
Though I knew something was to come.
The first crack of his palm let me know what exactly. That hard, strong hand smacking across my round cheeks with a loud sound that filled the room. He wasn’t gentle, but he wasn’t brutal either, it was a focussed, smooth smack of his hand upon my flesh.
But with how excited my nerves were, it felt like my world went white with the jolt.
My posture went hard, and for the briefest seconds, I wanted to walk out. To leave him, to just run home and hide from all the bad decisions I’d already made without going another step further.
As I teetered in my heels, forearms pressing into the fine sofa, my vision returned and I sucked in a breath.
I had to do something. To say that wasn’t acceptable.
I stood up, or, well, I tried to. That hand on my spine kept me pinned.
