Image License From Depositphotos

EROTICA | CHEATING | OFFICE SEX | COLLAR PLAY | DOMINATION | FINGERING | DIRTY TALK | MARRIED | POWER DYNAMIC | RISKY SEX

Controlled By My Vibrating Collar During the Million-Dollar Negotiation — 4

He controlled every vibration while I closed the deal, then made me spread for him on the table and beg while his fingers teased my soaked pussy.

PART 3

She had picked out black lace panties, which matched the lace bra that Marcus had watched her get in the morning.

She had selected them because she knew there was a possibility he would see them again.

She’d chosen them hoping.

The wet patch that showed through the lace made that hope glaringly apparent.

Marcus did not come nearer.

He stood where he was, arms folded, expression blank, looking at her.

Just looked.

The weight of his gaze was like a touch, on her skin, outlining her body through the lace, cataloguing every evidence of her arousal, like he catalogued the financial projections she'd presented him an hour ago.

“Push them aside.”

Her fingers obeyed.

She moved the lace to the side, and it dragged on the skin, which was sensitive, and she made a sound that was not professional.

Was not controlled.

Was not the sound a vice president should make at two-forty-five on a Tuesday afternoon in a conference room.

“You're wet,” Marcus said.

His voice was calm.

Clinical.

Man's voice commenting on weather.

“How long has it been since you've been like this?”

From the very beginning.”

“Forty-five minutes ago it was the first command.”

“I know.”

“You went through a whole negotiation, a negotiation that cost two hundred million dollars, and you wore your panties to the bottom of your feet.”

“Yes.”

He removed his arms from across his chest.

Step forward one foot.

Then another.

Claire's thighs shook with the will to remain still and open and to remain exactly as he had placed her.

“Speak your mind.”

The collar buzzed.

Not a command this time, but the slightest movement, the reminder of its presence, the whisper of the control that encircled her throat, twenty-four hours a day.

“Please touch me,” Claire whispered.

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Be specific.”

“My clit.”

It was a rough word, devoid of the polish she'd used as armour during negotiation.

I want your fingers on my clit, I want you to feel how wet I am, I want you to know what you do to me.

Marcus’s hand moved.

Not to her clit, to her throat.

One hand cupped the collar above her platinum band, the other below, around the sapphire that hung in the hollow of her throat.

“Yes, I already know,” he said.

“Since I put this on you the first night I knew exactly what I do to you.”

His other hand was in motion.

Down.

Beyond the frilly material of her skirt.

Beyond the lace she had pulled to the side.

His fingers found her, found the evidence of her arousal, found the proof of every command that had vibrated through the collar during the negotiation—and the sound Claire made was not quiet.

Was not controlled.

Was no one as composed as a professional who'd haggled down a licensing fee by twelve percent without breaking a sweat.

“That's all,” Marcus whispered in her ear.

“That's the sound I wanted to hear, not in the meeting, you were perfect in the meeting, now, I want to hear everything.”

His fingers circled.

Not penetrating.

Just exploring—mapping the geography of her arousal with the same methodical attention he brought to everything, tracing the contours of her.

Claire’s hips bucked.

She couldn’t stop them.

It was involuntary, a desperate body seeking friction, a desperate body seeking relief, a desperate body seeking the orgasm it had been building since the first vibration of the collar.

Marcus’s hand tightened on her throat.

Not choking—just pressure, just restraint, just enough to remind her who was in control.

“Don't chase it, you don't get to chase it unless I say so.”

“Marcus—”

“Until I give you permission to.”

She stilled.

In a part of her brain that still had enough sense to think, she wondered at this: at the way her body obeyed his voice, at the way his commands were obeyed even by the most basic instincts.

The urge to get up and go.

The drive to enjoy oneself.

The urge to eat what her body wanted.

He’d trained those instincts out of her.

Or, at least, he had trained them into something else; something that moved to his commands as a dancer moves to music, instinctive and immediate, and beyond conscious control.

His fingers started to explore again.

Lighter now.

Almost teasing.

Making circles around her clit without touching it, mapping the slick proof of her arousal without putting pressure on her.

Even though he wasn't using the remote, you're going to come, Marcus said, and she felt his voice in the metal, in the bones of her neck, in the space between her vertebrae.

“Not yet though.

You're going to tell me what you're going to do for me tonight, when we're in the house, when this collar is off and you're in my bed, not in a conference room.

Claire’s mouth opened.

Words spilled out.

Not measured language, not strategic language, not the language of negotiation, but the raw, unfiltered, the truth of what she was taken away from all professional pretenses.

“Hands behind my back, eyes down, I'll kneel for you, the way you like.”

“And then?”

“Well, then I will wait, till you say what you want.”

His fingers tightened around her neck.

“What I want?”

“Until you tell me what you need.”

“Better.”

He put his thumb to her clit.

Finally.

It was like a flash, she arched into it, the pressure at her throat and the pressure between her legs, suspended in the moment before release.

“Just keep on going,” Marcus said.

I'll use my mouth on you, as long as you want, I'll use my mouth on you, the way you taught me.

How you have learned.

His thumb was circling slowly and steadily, a rhythm that was creating something huge in the base of her spine.

“You're always been a quick learner.”

“You're a good teacher.”

A laugh, a quiet, intimate laugh, like a husband who has heard this joke many times and still laughs.

PART 5