“Don’t move an inch,” he almost snarls in my ear, then looks back at the teleconference unit on his desk and says in a completely normal voice, “Continue with the briefing, Neal.”
I’ve never met the mysterious Neal face-to-face, but this isn’t the first time he’s stuttered through a briefing while his boss slowly takes me apart on his lap. Thankfully, Otley hits the mute button, so I can pant out my frustration as he slowly works my blouse open. Now that I don’t have to wear polo shirts for work, I’ve invested in a lot of thin, silky things with buttons. Having to work them open draws out the anticipation, my entire body focused on the glide of his fingers as he slowly bares another patch of skin to his hungry eyes.
The meeting goes on as he releases the final button, but instead of giving my breasts the relief they so sorely need, he turns me around until I’m facing his desk, my spine flush to his chest. He’s wearing his suit – probably just for me, since he doesn’t bother when he’s working remotely – and he drapes his tie over my shoulder as he leans around and writes something on his notepad. The steady scratch of his pen is both frustrating and arousing, and my lashes flutter closed as the stiff silk of his tie brushes against the thin lace of my bra. My nipples are so tight and sensitive, I have to bite the edge of my tongue to stop myself from crying out.
It's only when Neal finishes his report that Otley starts to palm my breasts, his gray eyes gleaming as he watches me squirm.
It’s clear from observing his meetings that he’s the apex predator in any boardroom. Seeing him in his element is mesmerizing, especially because he wields power and control soeffortlessly. Even from hundreds of miles away, his staff clamor for his attention, and I can’t say I blame them. I want his focus on me always, to feel the burn of his bright-eyed stare even in a room full of people. It’s torture being forced to sit still while he commands his meetings —infinitively composed and untouchable— but it only makes my body hum for him more.
Finally, after twenty minutes of skimming the edges of my bra and discussing the ramifications of some new federal law, Otley bites my earlobe and whispers, “Go into the meeting room and get yourself ready, mate.”
Ugh. It’s hard not to whimper as I scramble off his lap. I can feel his gaze burning into me all the way to the door, and I can’t resist a quick glance over my shoulder as I step into the next room.
His gray eyes watch me with the intensity of a predator. If anyone else looked at me that way, I’d be filing for a restraining order, but I just flush from head to toe. Because he’smypredator, and I love every intense inch of him.
My heart melts a little more as I look around the room. When Otley decided that he’d be working remotely more often, he had the sitting area next to his office converted into a meeting room. There’s a polished walnut table with six high-backed chairs, a gleaming sideboard with bar facilities, and a leather sofa that’s perfect for naps.
But I’m not feeling the least bit sleepy as I take in the champagne cooling in a silver bucket beside a vase of fresh lilies. There’s a fire burning in the small fireplace, and soft music is filtering through the invisible speakers in the walls. There’s only a single lamp on, but it provides enough light to see what is waiting for me on the gleaming table.
I strip off my clothes as I cross the room, my skin pebbling with anticipation. I give my nipples a quick squeeze as I climb on the cushion Otley’s rolled out on the table. It reminds me ofa thickly padded yoga mat, the silky fabric brushing against my knees as I reach for the restraints.
One of the high points of the last couple of months was the lesson Otley gave me in correct restraint technique. He scowls every time I get a bruise and has made it his mission to ensure that I get as few as possible, and never at his hands. It’s kind of unavoidable when you’re living on a ranch, but I’m more than happy to be pampered by my over—protective mate.
I lay the blindfold on my lap as I work the first padded restraint around my ankle. It’s velvet lined, like the pair of nipple clamps I still use when I’m feeling extra needy. A clever strip of Velcro secures the binding, a silk rope tying the restraint to the sturdy leg of the table. I repeat the process on my other ankle and left wrist, sliding the blindfold over my eyes before I apply the last restraint. The most comfortable position is on my hands and knees, my skin prickling with awareness as I imagine how I look as Otley walks in the door.
The first hint of his presence comes in a wave of sweet, dark cherries. I arch my back, my eyes squeezing shut behind the blindfold. He doesn’t make a sound as he circles the table, no doubt admiring me from every angle. A heady mix of embarrassment and pride washes over me, making my chest tight and my thighs damp with slick. I know he can smell it by the subtle change in his breathing, and I moan quietly at his prolonged silence, straining my body in his direction.
Or, at least, in what I thought was the right direction.
Until a finger strokes down my spine, like an artist testing the texture of a marble finish.
I shiver, pulling gently on the restraints as the finger traces the curve of my ass. It lingers in the heated crevice before dipping between my legs to slide across my slick thighs. I can feel my pussy literally weeping to have him touch me – to push something,anything– inside me, but I swallow a gasp as a coolhand tilts my chin up. “Perfect, omega,” Otley purrs, right as a soft tongue laps across my folds. “Time to take your pleasure.”
Oh. It’s going to bethatkind of meeting.
I cry out, arms straining as I try to push back against that teasing mouth. I have an inkling of who it might be by the scent of leather in the air, although I’m already too overwhelmed to know for sure. I’ve been dreaming about this moment ever since I fastened the packing tape on the last moving box, and it seems that Otley plans to reward me for my patience.
I shudder as the door clicks again. The air stirs on either side of me as fingers pinch my aching nipples, and a perfect mix of caramel and mint washes over me. As I murmur broken sounds of pleasure, soothing hands brush over my trembling arms, Ellis and Tristan taking turns to drop open-mouthed kisses on my sweat-sheened spine.
“Please,” I pant, but Otley slides his thumb into my mouth, and I gargle out the rest of my plea. “I need you to…”
Kiss me. Touch me. Knot me.
I’m really not picky by this point.
“Look at what's on today’s agenda,” Tristan purrs in my ear as he rolls my nipple between his fingers. “I really hope this is a long,longmeeting.”
I whimper at the hint of glee in his voice; if the last three months have taught me anything, it’s that all of my mates love to see me tied up and begging for release.
“Do I need to read the minutes from the last meeting?” Ellis asks, slipping into his persona like it’s just another day on set. “I think there were a few points we wanted to go over again, right?”
“No,” Logan grunts from behind me, where a thick finger has replaced his probing tongue. “I think we all got the damn memo. Let’s move onto the action part.”
God, yes.
“Meeting adjourned,” I try to add, but it comes out a mangled mess as Otley presses down on my tongue. His thumb tastes like power and misery, and I writhe against the restraints as he cups the side of my neck. Their mating bites throb at the contact and as Logan squeezes my clit, the stimulation almost pushes me over the edge.
“Last order of business,” Otley murmurs, his tongue finally sliding past my lips to give me some relief. He laps at every inch of my mouth, and I don’t know if he gives some kind of visual cue, but Logan finally tugs me back and fills me with his cock.
