Free Serving the Billionaire by Bec Linder Page A

alive.
    Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic. But just a little.
    Mr. Sutton gestured to me, and I went over to him. His right hand was in his pocket. That wasn’t a good sign. I leaned down to hear what he wanted. “Another bottle of Scotch,” he said, and as he said bottle , I felt the vibrator start up again.
    I swallowed hard. “Right away,” I said, my voice cracking. How could he expect me to go out to the bar when the vibrator was buzzing away? I was going to trip and fall flat on my face, and Germaine would see and fire me. Or I would stumble into one of the customers and make him spill his drink. Or I was going to come in the middle of the room and embarrass myself completely.
    I went back out to the bar. This time, I had to lean against the edge for support while I waited for the bartender to get the bottle off the top shelf. My hands shook slightly. My swollen clit throbbed in time with my heartbeat. The vibrator stuttered and then buzzed slightly faster, and my mouth fell open on a silent moan.
    The bartender slid the bottle across the counter to me. “You okay?” he asked. “You look a little flushed.”
    “Yes,” I said. “Just... warm in here.”
    He gave me an odd look, but turned away. I took the bottle and fled.
    I really didn’t know how I was going to make it through the night.
    Mr. Sutton was watching as I came through the door, and he motioned me over. I clutched the bottle, terrified that I would drop it. As I approached, he set his glass on the table and said, “A refill, please.”
    I crouched and fumbled open the bottle. My hands felt like they were wrapped in cotton; my fingers wouldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My underpants were soaked through, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if I were making a mess of my tights as well. The fabric of my bra scraped against my tender nipples. And Mr. Sutton just sat there and watched me try to fight the unbearable pleasure he was inflicting on me.
    Carefully, so carefully, I lifted the bottle and poured out a measure of whiskey.
    Somehow I managed not to spill any.
    Just as I set the bottle back on the table, the vibration increased yet again, and I dropped the cap. It fell to the table and bounced onto the floor. All of the guests turned to look at me.
    I didn’t know what I looked like, but I could imagine: eyes too bright, face pink, mouth open, panting. I probably looked like I’d just been fucked. I looked away from the curious gazes and went down onto my knees to fish the cap out from where it had rolled beneath the sofa.
    “She isn’t ordinarily so clumsy,” I heard Mr. Sutton say, and humiliation brought a fresh wave of heat to my face. I didn’t know why he would say something like that.
    The guests chuckled. I retrieved the cap and sat up, hair threatening to escape from the tight bun I’d twisted it into. Mr. Sutton was looking at me, face unreadable.
    “I’m sorry I dropped the cap,” I said quietly.
    He leaned close enough to brush his lips against my ear. “I love watching you lose control,” he murmured.
    I couldn’t think. I screwed the cap back onto the bottle.
    He sat back and slid his hand into his pocket. I held my breath. Was he going to turn it off, or make the vibrations even stronger?
    I didn’t think I could take any more.
    But instead of forcing me to come like that, kneeling there on the floor with his guests arranged around me, he turned the vibrator off.
    Greatly relieved, I climbed to my feet and went back to the fireplace.
    He tormented me like that all evening: switching the vibrator on and off at erratic intervals, and watching me as I clung to the mantle and tried not to moan out loud. I was a shaking, oversensitive mess, but he always managed to turn off the vibrator just before I came. He brought me to the edge again and again, and then yanked me back from the precipice right before I was about to go over.
    By the end, I was ready to beg him to let me come.
    The party ended earlier than they