Chapter 3: Love games
The elevator doors slid shut, sealing us in a silent, mirrored cube ascending through the hotel’s core. He didn’t touch me. He just watched my reflection, my smeared mascara and flushed skin a testament to what had already happened in the car. His stillness was a contrast to the frantic energy humming inside me. My throat was raw, my lips tender, and the taste of him still lingered at the back of my tongue, a salty, intimate ghost.
The penthouse suite was a vast, silent expanse of cream and gold.
Floor-to-ceiling windows presented the city as a sprawl of glittering pins below us, distant and unimportant. Brad tossed his jacket over a chaise lounge. “Thirsty?” he asked, as if we were here for a business meeting. His casual tone felt like a deliberate game, a way to underscore the transactional nature of this. It made the heat between my legs feel foolish.
“Water, please,” I managed, my voice raspy from his use.
He brought two glasses from a minibar, handing one to me. I drank greedily, the cold liquid doing nothing to douse the fire he’d lit. He stood close, invading my space without touching, just radiating a heat that made my skin prickle. I set the glass down with a click that was too loud.
“You’re still dressed,” he observed, his eyes trailing over my party dress.
“You could fix that.”
It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a quiet command. My fingers trembled as I reached for the zipper at my side, but his hand covered mine, stopping me. “Let me.”
He turned me around, his body a solid wall at my back. His fingers found the zipper and drew it down with a slow, deliberate rasp. The sound was infinitely more obscene here in this quiet room than it had been in the noisy car. The dress loosened, and he pushed the straps from my shoulders. It fell in a pool of silk at my feet. I stood in only my heels and simple lace panties, exposed before the entire city.
His hands settled on my bare hips, his thumbs stroking the dip of my waist. He leaned in, his lips grazing the shell of my ear. “On your knees.”
A shiver wracked me. I sank down, the plush carpet soft against my skin. He unbuckled his belt, the leather sliding through the loops with a hiss. His trousers and boxers followed, and he was already hard again, thick and dark and imposing. I didn’t wait for further instruction. I was learning the rules of this game. I wanted to prove I was an exceptional player.
I took him into my mouth, but this time I was in control of the pace. I started agonizingly slow, using just my lips on the broad head, tasting the remnants of our earlier encounter. I heard his sharp intake of breath. I flicked my tongue against the slit, then traced the prominent vein along the underside with the tip. My hands cupped his heavy balls, rolling them gently as I took more of him inch by torturous inch.
I savored the weight of him on my tongue, the musky, clean scent of his skin, the way his abdominal muscles tightened when I hollowed my cheeks. I used every trick I could remember, every sensitive spot I’d cataloged in the car. I twisted my head, letting my hair brush against his thighs. I deep-throated him until my eyes watered, then pulled back to lavish attention on just the frenulum with quick, firm licks.
“Fuck, just like that,” he gritted out, his hands finding my hair again but not forcing, just gripping.
I moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. I was relentless, a study in devotion, trying to convey with my mouth what I couldn’t with words—that this was more than a transaction for me now. That I was addicted to the power of ruining his composure. Spit slicked his length and dripped from my chin. The room filled with the wet, filthy sounds of my work.
He was breathing in ragged gasps, his thighs trembling. “Gonna come… right down your slutty throat again…”
But I pulled off with a pop, leaving him throbbing in the cool air. I looked up, meeting his dark, confused gaze. My own need was a screaming fist in my belly. “My turn,” I said, my voice a raw command I didn’t recognize.
I didn’t ask. I pushed at his legs, guiding him backwards until he sat on the edge of a large ottoman. I straddled his lap, my soaked panties grinding against his shaft, but I kept him from entering me. I kissed him fiercely, letting him taste himself on my lips. “You don’t get to be the only one who comes,” I whispered against his mouth. “I want your mouth on me. Now.”
I shifted, kneeling over his face, one hand braced on the back of the ottoman for balance. I looked down over my shoulder, watching his expression. For a second, he seemed surprised, perhaps even resistant. Then a dark, approving smile touched his lips. His hands gripped my thighs, his fingers digging into the soft flesh. He pulled me down onto his mouth.
The first flat stroke of his tongue against my clit made me cry out. He wasn’t gentle. He was ravenous. He ate me like a man starving, his tongue plunging inside me before circling my clit with firm, dizzying pressure. One hand came up to press firmly on my lower belly, holding me in place as he devoured me. The other hand slipped between my legs from behind, a finger slicking through my folds before pushing into my ass.
The dual invasion, the sheer thoroughness of it, shattered me. I rocked against his face, my moans becoming screams. “Yes, right there, oh god, don’t stop!” He growled against me, the vibration pushing me higher. His finger worked in time with his tongue, a relentless, obscene rhythm. The pleasure was a white-hot wire, pulled taut from my core to the very ends of my nerves.
I came with a violence that blinded me, my body convulsing over his mouth, my fingers tangled in his hair, holding him to me as wave after wave of brutal pleasure tore through me. He didn’t stop until I was twitching and oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.
He let me slide off, and I collapsed onto the carpet beside the ottoman, boneless and gasping. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his own breathing uneven. He looked down at me, sprawled and utterly spent. The city lights glinted in his eyes, but his expression was unreadable. He stood, his erection still obvious and untouched.
I had never felt such raw, unbridled lust for anyone before, and the thought of it both thrilled and terrified me. The elevator doors sealed us in a capsule of mirrored brass, and my own reflection showed a stranger—lips bruised, hair disheveled, eyes dark with a hunger that had nothing to do with money anymore. He didn’t touch me. He just watched me in the glass, a faint, knowing smile on his face. The silence was a taut wire between us.
“Nervous?” His voice was calm, detached.
“No.” The lie was automatic. My heart was a trapped bird.
“Good.”
The penthouse suite was a vault of shadows and silvers, one entire wall a window to the city’s diamond grid. He discarded his jacket onto a sofa that cost more than my car. The click of the door locking was the only ceremony. He walked to the minibar, the crunch of ice in a glass abnormally loud. “Champagne?”
I just stood there, my dress still feeling like a costume. “Yes, please.”
He brought two glasses over, handing me one. I drank too quickly, the bubbles sharp in my throat. He sipped his, his eyes never leaving me. They traced the line of my neck, the tremor in my hand holding the flute. He saw everything.
“Hemant called me. While you were cleaning up.” He stated it flatly.
I froze. “What did he say?”
“He thanked me.” Vishal took another slow sip. “He said he hopes you… enjoyed yourself. That he’ll see you at home.”
The hollowness from the penthouse returned, but now it was filled with a sudden, clarifying rage. It wasn’t directed at Vishal, or even at Hemant. It was for myself. For my compliance. For the envelope of money that had already been spent in his mind. The debt was cleared, the transaction complete. But I was still here.
And I wanted to be.
I set the glass down on a side table, the crystal ringing softly. “I’m not going home.”
“No?” One eyebrow lifted.
“Not yet.”
I crossed the space between us. The plush carpet swallowed the sound of my steps. I stopped before him, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the clean scent of his skin mixed with the faint, primal aroma of our earlier coupling. My fingers went to the buttons of his shirt.
He didn’t move to help. He just watched, his breath steady.
Now it was my chance to please him. Give Vishal pleasure which even his wife wouldn’t have given till now. I was slow, sensual and like a slut. A slow oral covering all a man could dream of. Slow to the extent of almost painful but shattering orgasm.
I parted the fabric, revealing the hard plane of his chest. I leaned in and pressed my lips to his skin, just over his heart. I felt the strong, steady beat against my mouth. My tongue darted out, tasting the salt of him. My hands pushed the shirt back over his shoulders, and he allowed it to fall away.
My journey downwards was a pilgrimage. I kissed the defined ridges of his abdomen, my tongue dipping into the shallow groove of his navel. My fingers unbuckled his belt, the leather sighing as I pulled it loose. The button of his trousers gave way, the zipper a loud proclamation in the quiet room.
I sank to my knees on the carpet. I looked up at him, his face half in shadow. Then I freed him.
He was already thick and heavy, semi-hard. I took him in my hand, feeling the weight, the vibrant heat. I didn’t take him into my mouth immediately. I leaned forward and breathed on the tip, watching him twitch. I used my tongue like a paintbrush, starting at the very base, a slow, wet stripe all the way up the prominent vein on the underside to the flared head.
A low hiss escaped his lips.
I swirled my tongue around the crown, collecting the bead of moisture already gathered there. I took just the head into my mouth, sucking gently, my cheeks hollowing. My hand worked the length I couldn’t yet accommodate, a slow, twisting pump. I felt him harden impossibly further, stretching my lips.
I pulled off with a wet pop. “You’re so big,” I whispered, my voice husky.
“Take it,” he commanded, his tone stripped of its earlier calm.
I obeyed, but on my terms. I opened my throat and took him deeper, retreating before I gagged, then sinking down again, each time accepting a little more. It was a torture of increments. My saliva slicked him, making obscene, slick sounds as I moved. My free hand cupped his balls, rolling the heavy orbs gently, then with more pressure.
His hands tangled in my hair, not forcing, but anchoring. I could feel the tension coiling in his thighs, in the tight clench of his abdomen.
“Fuck,” he grunted.
I redoubled my efforts. I found a rhythm that was agonizingly deliberate. Deep suction on the downstroke, a flick of my tongue on the up. I moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk. I looked up, meeting his gaze. His eyes were black, his jaw rigid. The control he wore like armor was fracturing.
“You filthy little cocksucker,” he breathed, the words ragged.
The praise was gasoline on my fire. I took him all, until my nose was buried in the coarse hair at his base, my throat convulsing around him. I held there, letting the tears spring to my eyes, until my lungs screamed. I pulled back, gasping for air, a string of saliva connecting my lips to his shining, slick cock.
I didn’t let him recover. I dove back down, my pace increasing minutely, a relentless, deep-throating punishment. My hand worked in tandem, twisting. I could taste his pre-cum, bitter and clean. The sounds were animalistic—his ragged breaths, my wet gags, the slick, rhythmic gliding.
“I’m gonna come.” It was a warning, strained.
I pulled off completely, stroking him fast with my fist. “Not yet,” I panted, my own need a throbbing ache between my legs. I leaned in and took his balls into my mouth, sucking one, then the other, my tongue lapping at the sensitive skin.
“Christ, Ritika…”
I returned to his cock, swallowing him whole again, my rhythm becoming desperate, hungry. I wanted to break him. I wanted to be the thing that shattered his composure completely.
His hips began to piston, fucking my face in short, brutal thrusts. His grip on my hair became painful. “Swallow it,” he snarled. “Swallow every fucking drop.”
The first pulse hit the back of my throat, hot and thick. The taste, the surrender, the sheer force of it triggered something primal in me. I drank him down, milking him with my throat, through a second, third, fourth searing jet, until he was spent and shaking.
He slumped back against the wall, his chest heaving. I stayed on my knees, my lips still wrapped around his softening length, cleaning him with slow, tender laps of my tongue until he was sensitive and twitching.
Finally, I sat back on my heels, looking up at him. His eyes were closed, his face a mask of utterly spent, profound release. For a moment, he looked vulnerable.
Then his eyes opened. They locked onto mine, and the vulnerability was gone, replaced by something darker, more appraising. He reached down, his thumb wiping a stray tear and a smear of saliva from my chin.
“Nobody,” he said, his voice gravel, “has ever done that.”
He pulled me up by my arms, my knees weak. He didn’t kiss me. He turned me around to face the sprawling cityscape, pulling my back against his front. His hands slid around my waist, possessive.
“Now,” he murmured into my hair, his spent cock still pressed against me through his open trousers. “Tell me what you want.”