AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“That pretty little mouth wrapped around my cock.”
“Mmmm, that could be arranged,” I tease. I’ve been thinking about it all day, too. That, and something else… “Hey, um, can I ask you something?” I say, abruptly switching topics.
He shifts his hips, so his rock-hard cock is pressed against my wet pussy, the only barrier is the fabric of his suit pants. “Yes?”
“A couple of girls at the spa mentioned you and said something happened last year. What were they talking about?”
His brows twitch together only momentarily before he shakes his head. “Just gossip. It’s nothing to worry about.” He threads his fingers through mine, kissing my knuckles and looking down at me with those dazzling blue eyes.
“Now, what was the rule, Madeline, do you remember? While you are here…” he prompts.
I sit up, stiffening, putting a self-conscious hand on my clothed chest. “I’m sorry. I forgot to take my clothes off, Master.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Do it now, then. And if you please me well enough, I’ll let it pass—this time.”
Immediately, I jump from the bed and comply, pulling my clothes off, almost frantic to obey him. When I start to kneel, he stops me.
“Right now, I’m going to feed you some dinner.” He presses his thumb to my bottom lip. “And then you’re going to suck my cock dry with that pretty mouth.”
I smile and nod, and try to push the uncertainty away. Maybe he’s right. Didn’t Grace say there’s always drama at Exeter House? I desperately want to believe that’s all it is. Idle gossip. But I can’t shake the feeling that Evan is hiding something from me. Something dangerous.
Chapter 30
Champagne and Secrets
Throughout the course of our prescribed week together, Kohl’s agenda seems intent on emphasizing the fact that I am a sexual being and that, during this week, I exist in this context to serve him.
So our somewhat regular routine starts the very next day. Instead of waking up and getting ready for my Monday morning classes, I am awakened and commanded to suck him off.
Every morning starts with a blowjob. After waking me in the early hours before he goes off to work, he either directs me to get on my knees or I go down on him while lying on the bed.
Then, as is his new habit, he feeds me my breakfast by hand. At first I’m annoyed by the insistence, but the routine starts to feel somewhat…comforting.
As he’d promised, my schoolwork is sent to me daily by my professors, and I spend much of the morning studying before being permitted to dress and explore the lower levels of Exeter House. Sometimes to go shopping, sometimes to visit the spa. One day, I surprise him with a Brazilian wax.
His response to that surprise could not have been more amazing. He spends hours giving me oral, exploring me in all my depilated glory, bringing me to orgasm after orgasm until my voice is hoarse from moaning and screaming his name.
Nights give me the hot thrill of anticipation. He texts me when he leaves his office, and I’m freshly showered, naked and ready for him, kneeling in the front room when he arrives.
Dinner comes soon after, and he feeds me that by hand as well, while I sit in his lap. Then, the entire night stretches before us. Sometimes, he has an entire scene in mind. I’m cuffed to the bed and whipped or tied up while he fucks me into oblivion. Other times, he denies me his cock, teasing me, drawing out my desire until I’m practically screaming for release.
But it’s late at night, when we’re both spent and every last drop of pleasure is wrung from our bodies that I really feel connected to him. We feast on snacks, cuddling beneath his five-million-thread-count sheets, and watch something completely inane, like pottery-making on YouTube, or a documentary on bees. It doesn’t really matter what it is. We’re together. And then we fall asleep that way, all tangled up in each other, with the TV still on.
The week flies by as if we’re immersed in some alternate reality, and I’m wondering how the transition back to my normal real world will go when I wake up late on Saturday morning and realize I’m alone.
The tempting aroma of coffee hits my nostrils, and I roll over onto my side, opening my eyes. The bed stretches for miles, but except for me, it’s empty. Kohl is gone.
On the bed next to me there’s a large, flat box with a smaller box on top of it, an envelope taped to the top. An insulated cup of Starbucks sits on the nightstand.
I reach for the coffee and turn my attention to the boxes. Taking a sip of my latte, I tear the envelope off and open the short, handwritten note inside.
Madeline,
Gala tonight. I will be home at 8 p.m. to pick you up.
E
Typical of Kohl. No explanation about where he is or what he’s doing. I stare at the note and will it to be charming and flirtatious, or at the very least, informative. It’s neither. Charming and flirtatious just isn’t Kohl’s style. Neither is informative, for that matter.
