She’s on her knees, submitting to my every demand, yet she holds all the power.
“You’re still with me, wife?”
She doesn’t answer.
Instead, she cups my balls in her hands and kisses each one with extreme tenderness. When she’s done, she sits on her knees, her hands placed on her thighs, her eyes staring up at me. Her lips are swollen from my assault.
“Was that okay, dear husband?” Her words are a brazen mixture of innocence and insolence.
She’s fucking perfect.
Chapter 25
Michaela
The life of a billionaire’s wife is extra sweet.
Like flying in style on a private jet, landing at Paris’ Charles de Gaulle Airport is different when you’re part of the top echelon. Customs isn’t a never-ending line of cranky, tired travelers arriving from crammed commercial flights, desperate to get to their hotel or home. There was practically no wait time for us. We were in and out in a flash.
Money is a beautiful thing.
The same level of luxury applies to the drive from the airport to the hotel. Sitting in the back of a chauffeured Mercedes-Benz beats sitting in the back of a tiny taxi by a long shot.
Been there, done that.
Then, there’s the accommodation.
The hotels I could afford when I visited the city tended to be small in size, with diminutive rooms designed for sleep and nothing more. Everything about the Pompadour Saint-Honoré is grandiose.
Where the Pompadour, Beverly Hills is sleek and modern, this location is encrusted in olde worlde charm. The exterior of the building is exactly what you’d expect to see in a city like Paris. The juxtaposition with the ultramodern interiordécor is striking. The luxury hotel is located on Rue Saint-Honoré in the 1st arrondissement––one of the city’s wealthiest neighborhoods. It’s a convenient walking distance from the Louvre, the upscale shops on Champs-Élysées, and steps away from Place Vendôme. The beauty of this prestigious hotel is unparalleled.
I step out of the bedroom and into the living room. Our penthouse-style suite is so massive, there’s an actual living room outfitted with sofas, chairs, a bar, large screen TV and a kickass sound system.
I clear my throat. “How do I look?”
He turns around from the window where he’s standing, drink in hand.
He gives me a onceover. His blue eyes are electric as he appraises my dress.
“You don’t like it?”
He studies me.
I grow self-conscious under his gaze.
His long strides carry him to the bar cart. He drops his tumbler on the glass surface then slides both hands into his pockets before strutting in my direction.
He gives me another onceover, this one so slow, it feels like a caress. “Jesus.”
“Is that a good Jesus or a bad one?” Nervousness coats my words.
Phoenix’s eyes roam over my body, taking in every inch of me.
I work my lower lip, awaiting his verdict.
“That’s a ‘Jesus, I can’t wait for this damn gala to be over, because right now, I’m seriously debating skipping it altogether so I can spend the rest of the evening sinking my hard cock into your hot, wet pussy’.”
On their own accord, my eyes land on his crotch before meeting his gaze.
