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“That’s right, my little pet,” he rasps into my ear. “I love how your anal ring grips me, so hungry for more. Now ride,” he commands. “Fuck my dick with your butt, sweetheart. I know you want it.”
The dirty words get to me and I begin pounding myself down on his shaft with a vengeance. After all, I may be a hungry slut, but the billionaire loves it. So I raise my bottom and drop it down again, my butt cheeks clapping with the exertion.
“Fuck!” is my breathless cry as I near the edge. “Oh shit!”
“You little butt slut,” he growls. “Fuck my dick with your ass, my little whore.”
The nastiness pushes me over the edge, and stars explode before my eyes. I let out a high-pitched, keening cry as my pussy and anus spasm hard, clamping down on his cock.
“Fuck,” he gasps. “Fuck my life!!!!”
With that, Mr. Carmichael bursts again, depositing load after load of sperm into my bottom. He pumps non-stop, gallons of the good stuff blasting my anal canal, until I’m overflowing. Finally, we stop and I press a kiss to the bronzed column of his throat. Semen is leaking from my sore anus, but I love it.
“So if I do this for you every morning, will you like my cat?” I ask teasingly, while rubbing my breasts against his chest. Mr. Carmichael can barely breathe because he’s still dribbling the last bits of cum into my sweet cavern, but he grunts low in his chest.
“If you do a double-header for me every morning, that fucking cat can sleep on the bed with us,” he manages, while swiping one big hand between my legs. “With that kind of performance, you can do anything you want, sweetheart.”
I like that answer so I kiss him again and wiggle my hips a little. “Oh good because my neighbor’s taking care of Henry right now, but one day, you know you’re going to have to let me out of here,” I say playfully. “You can’t keep me here forever and ever, as your little sex slave.”
Peter grunts, pulling my curvy form close. His dick finally exits my anal chamber, and I gasp. Sometimes he feels so hard coming out, that I think we’re about to start another round of hot loving. But evidently, not this time.
“We’ll see about that,” is all he says. My heart thrills. Does he want to keep me with him forever? Maybe not here at the Billionaires Club, but at his house in the real world? Could we even interact in real life, and maybe go out on dates like regular people? My heart rushes and I look at the dark, devastating man with love in my eyes. Because yes, I’ve fallen in love with Peter Carmichael, my captor … and I can’t imagine living without him.
Chapter 12
Peter
Gemma’s amazing. Beautiful as all hell, with a sharp wit and a sweet smile that makes me go all soft inside. Can you believe it? Me, Peter Carmichael. Asshole extraordinaire who’s never been in love before. Yeah, it blows my mind too.
After all, I never expected this. I figured that I’d live my entire life as a single man with nary a care in the world. What was there to worry about? I’ve got billions in cash, a couple houses around the world, and a car collection that would make Billy Joel jealous. Not just that, but women throw themselves at me every single minute of every single day. It gets tiring, to be honest. Sometimes, I just want to mind my own business, whether it’s getting a coffee at Starbucks or working out in the gym. But no, the women can get aggressive. They throw themselves at me, uncaring that I’m sweating bullets and panting like a madman trying to run five miles at a heartwrenching pace.
So Gemma is real different, and I mean that in a good way. Of course, she’s sweet and sensual, but she sasses me back too, and I like that. Too many women lay back and let me do anything I want given the amount of money at play. After all, I treat them nice. Or more accurately, I buy them nice stuff to keep them compliant. Clothes, jewelry, even a car once in a while. There was a girl way back when who wrangled an apartment out of me. It’s a lot but you know what? I don’t really care because what’s one more apartment? Just a few hundred thou, which is nothing to a billionaire like me.
But that’s the thing – even though I’ve showered Gemma with every luxury, she doesn’t let it get to her head. She doesn’t become some docile fifties housewife with a lipsticked smile while running the vacuum cleaner. Instead, she gives as good as she gets.
“So what’s going on with the waitressing gig?” she asked me the other day. I looked up from the paper I was reading. It’s nice having her stay in my suite. Comfortable really. We were sprawled out, eating bagels and drinking OJ while reading different sections of the New York Times.
