Page 46 of Negotiation Tactics
Two of his fingers press against my hole, and that’s all it takes for me to climax. I come in his mouth just like he wanted me to, shaking and whimpering as I struggle to keep my voice down. It feels like forever before I stop spilling, content and boneless by the end of it as he emerges from under the table and reclaims the seat next to me.
“This was…” I slur, smiling at him. “You’ve got some balls, I’ll give you that.”
Chuckling, he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. “My balls would love some attention right about now.”
I zip myself up and peek at his crotch. His erection tents his pants, clear as day. “Hmm, should I take pity on you?”
“Definitely, or I don’t know how I’ll make it back to the office. I’ve been waiting for this since last night.”
Slipping a hand inside his pants, I grasp his hot shaft. It’s thick and long, and I know just how amazing it feels inside me. So last night he edged himself too, not just me. It’s so fucking hot.
“Then I better take care of this.”
I start slowly, teasing him until he’s panting and clenching his jaw. My fingers map every inch of his cock, the silky, veiny skin tempting me to say fuck it and impale myself on him. But I don’t give in, promising myself that I will get a chance to do that later. For now, I want to give him the best ever hand job.
“Go quicker, and harder. I’m close,” he instructs me even though I’m the one in charge with his dick in my hand.
I speed up my strokes, squeezing the tip and rubbing the base. His hand clasps my neck suddenly, his mouth slotting against mine in a dirty, desperate kiss.
That’s my cue to grab the towel and wrap it around him so we don’t make a mess we’ll have a nightmare time explaining. He comes with a muffled roar, trembling as we keep devouring each other’s mouths. Sparks shoot down my back even though I already came, my cock twitching with renewed interest.
I hold onto him until he stops shaking, then make sure I’ve wiped off any leftover mess before I get rid of the cloth in the nearby bin. When I return, he’s schooled his blissed-out expression so well, you’d think he spent the last twenty minutes in a boring business meeting and not doing naughty stuff in the middle of a busy restaurant.
Retaking my seat, I order dessert. I can’t exactly look him in the eye for some reason. Maybe it’s the gravity of what we did, or where we did it and how stupidly risky it was, but it’s suddenly too much so I busy myself doodling on a napkin. I am aware that he’s observing me, I can feel the weight of his gaze, but I push through the twinge of self-consciousness and sketch out lines and ovals and squares, connecting them all together. This calms me down, helps me regain my center.
“How are the preparations for the not-secret party for your mom going?” he asks once our desserts are served, his tone casually curious.
“They are going well, although yesterday she texted me if I could cancel the party altogether.” I shake my head. “Suffice to say, we had a heated discussion after thatbecause she is a stubborn mule. People love her, but she can be so difficult sometimes.”
We move onto Alistair’s dad once I’ve finished ranting. I’m still doodling and he doesn’t seem to mind at all, which I discover I like. Some people demand your full, active attention on them when you are chatting, and I expected that of him, but he’s actually pretty chill. It’s nice.
“So, let me get this straight.” I put the pen down, done with the fountain I was apparently sketching. “Your dad wants Christine Fleur to be in charge of the grand opening of your hotel in Singapore, so in exchange,youhave to help her by modeling for her ad campaign?”
“Mhm. That’s right.” He plucks the napkin out of my hand, but I don’t try to get it back. I’m feeling confident about my lines today, or, perhaps, it’s a side effect of the amazing orgasm he gave me. “I don’t really mind that part, I’ve done photoshoots before. Plus, this whole exchange will help us get even more publicity for our two new locations.”
He says that, but it lacks enthusiasm, like he only half-believes it. “Do you even need it? The attention? Your hotels are very famous already.”
He’s thoughtful, running his fingers over the lines I drew. “Sure. It won’t be a bust if we didn’t get her involved, but it helps that she is. We already have extra sign-ups coming in and the announcement hasn’t even been made public yet,” he says somewhat detachedly.
He doesn’t look like he wants to talk about parent matters anymore and I wonder if it’s because, like me, he feels the underlying pressure of having to always prove to himself and others he is capable. That he can be counted on even if he might not measure up to his dad no matter how hard he tries.
“So, you read in your free time?” I change the topic abruptly, causing him to narrow his eyes until his brain makes the jump from one thing to another. “You had a book on your nightstand.”
“I try to, but I don’t get a lot of free time.” He lifts the napkin with the rough sketch. “You draw?”
“No, not really. It’s more of a bad doodling habit I have and can’t get rid of.” He examines the napkin as if he’s looking at something that’s actually worth his full attention and gives me a pointed look. “It’s not a hobby?’’
I suppose the quality might be a little above just random strokes, a side-effect of the time I spent trying to learn to draw properly so I could be an interior designer and work alongside dad.
“Not anymore, no. It’s something I used to do when I was in high school.” Before he can follow-up with any further questions about my once-dream, I toss the question back at him. “What about you? Any hobbies?” I ask, realizing I am genuinely curious to know.
I’ve never really thought about it, but rich people tend to be extravagant when it comes to everything, so while he’s contemplating my question, I speculate what kinds of crazy hobbies a billionaire bad boy dork could have.
“I don’t really have any,” he replies, his words cutting off my imagination that in the span of less than thirty seconds has had him skydive, horse ride, buy Mona Lisa and use an RNG app to decide which of a hundred fancy, expensive as shit custom-made cars to add to his underground garage collection. I’m a little surprised, or probably a lot surprised, because I was sure he was going to hit me with something I’d never even entertained doing.
He must see my confusion because he smiles awkwardly and raises his shoulder. “I told you, I don’t have much free time.”
This is a bit sad. I get busy too, but I guess that if I wanted to get back into drawing, technically I could do it. Or, I don’t know, if I wanted to pick up a sport.
