Controlled By My Vibrating Collar During the Million-Dollar Negotiation — 3
Two words from him and my body obeyed instantly — then he told me to sit on the conference table, lift my skirt, and prove just how soaked…
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EROTICA | BDSM | COLLAR | DOMINANT HUSBAND | OFFICE SEX | OBEDIENCE | RISKY DISPLAY
Controlled By My Vibrating Collar During the Million-Dollar Negotiation — 3
Two words from him and my body obeyed instantly — then he told me to sit on the conference table, lift my skirt, and prove just how soaked I was while anyone could walk by.
He didn’t talk immediately.
He never did.
He walked into the room with the confidence of a man who owns all the space he's in, and he owned this space right now, between him and his wife.
He was dressed in a charcoal suit she had chosen for him, and the tie she had knotted for him this morning, and the expression she knew that would lead to something she would never forget.
“You were just a perfect girl,” he said.
Two words.
That was all.
Two words and she felt her shoulders relax, her jaw loosen, her body move from high alert, performance mode into something softer, pliable.
It happened so quickly, it took three years of conditioning, three years of Marcus teaching her nervous system that his voice meant safety, his approval meant release.
“There's that 12 percent that was a gamble,” she said.
“My brain was still working, still thinking, still looking at all the variables and all the outcomes.”
“If his board doesn't go for it—”
“He's not going to get his board to say no.”
Marcus moved closer.
He used his fingers to find the clasp of the collar, the back, where the mechanism was pressed against her back.
“He wants the deal—you gave him a win, he’s in debt to you, and men like Derek Morrison hate being in debt.”
Claire's head bent forward.
Involuntarily.
The reflex was so strong that it couldn't be denied, when Marcus touched her collar she presented.
Like a cat scratching up, but so much more exposed, more calculated.
“It's the royalty arrangement that needs to be addressed,” she said quietly.
“It needs a cap on the back end, it will be added Thursday.”
“That will go in Thursday.”
His fingers located the clasp.
Not yet, not opening it, but testing the mechanism, reminding her that he could.
That he was the one who had the power to keep her from the world and her throat.
That the collar is only removed when Marcus decides to remove it.
When I said it I had paused, and his voice had not altered; it was still calm and conversational, and quite terrifying in its gentleness.
“Just for a moment.
But you hesitated.”
Claire’s stomach tightened.
“It wasn't what I was hoping for.”
Always be prepared for it.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
He froze his fingers on the clasp.
“Expectation means, your breath is shallow, your thighs are soft, your mouth is forming words that you have yet to hear, that's what expectation looks like.”
She nodded.
A little move, limited by the collar and his grip, the weight of his attention.
“I’ll do better.”
“I know you will.”
He let go of the clasp.
His hand was on her neck, moving down to her shoulder, down to her arm, his fingers sending sparks of electricity down the silk of her blouse until they reached her wrist.
He lifted her hand, the same hand that he had shaken hands with Derek Morrison 15 minutes ago, and pressed his lips to her palm.
It was a gesture that was so kind, so so different from the steel in his voice that Claire made a sound that she hadn't intended to make.
A small, broken exhale that was more for the bedroom than for the conference room with glass walls and fluorescent lighting.
“What did you think about when I told you to spread your legs?”
Marcus asked her over her left palm.
She opened her eyes.
At what time did she close them?
“Your cock,” she said.
The word fell in the quiet room as a stone falls in water.
Marcus's eyes went black, she watched as his pupils widened, his jaw clenched, and his grip became something beyond tender.
“Specifically?”
Specifically, how it feels when you make me wait for it.”
Her voice was now more even.
Steadily, she was calmed by confession.
“If you tell me to spread my legs and then you don't touch me, when you make me sit there wet and open and you're deciding whether I deserve it.”
“And had you earned it?”
“I don’t know.”
He had no trouble with being honest.
It always had.
“I thought I had.
But then I hesitated.”
A grin appeared on his lips.
“You did hesitate.”
“Perhaps I wasn't ready for it yet.”
“Maybe you hadn’t.”
He let her go.
Stepped back.
The gap between them seemed so great, so vast, three feet that seemed like three miles, a gap of air-conditioned conference room air, a gap that Claire's body was telling her to close.
She stayed where she was.
He didn't say to her to move.
“Let's go for another twenty minutes,” Marcus said, looking at his watch.
The next booking is at three and the gallery windows are polarized—checked before coming down.”
He turned and stared at her.
“So, this is what will happen.”
Claire’s breath caught.
Held.
“You're going to be sitting on the edge of this table, you're going to lift your skirt, and you're going to show me just how wet you got while you were being such a good little negotiator.”
The words fell as commands.
They were commands, so they were not allowed to be taken away.
In the guise of a suggestion, in the costume of a request, but the voice of command still echoes in the collar, and the three years of history that had taught Claire what to do when she obeyed.
She moved before her mind could catch up.
When she sat on the edge of the table, it was cool against her thighs.
Claire noticed the lights of the ceiling overhead in distorted stripes on the surface of the obsidian, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she noticed that this was crazy—that anybody could walk past the conference room, with the glass walls, and see the vice president of business development sitting on the negotiation table with her skirt bunched around her hips.
However, her mind wasn't in command in front.
The moment had already slipped from her mind when Marcus said show me.
She raised her skirt. PART 4
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