Chapter 52 – Pleasing the Boss

I also don’t miss the hint of a smile before it disappears. “That can’t be all you care about.”

She’s right, of course. I can’t care what most people think of me—a good deal of them hate me just because of my name, just because of my bank account.

But I do care what my father thinks.

What Irving thinks.

I care about holding my position at SNC.

I can’t bear the prospect of being the only Seymour who fails.

Lately, though, I’ve had trouble staying focused on my priorities. I wake up with this f**king woman on my mind, and a smile to go with it, until I remember that she legally belongs to someone else.

Which should be a plus, as far as I’m concerned.

I generally prefer married women. Happily married women, to be precise. Women who will never leave their husbands. Their wants from me are clear—sexual attention and to be showered with the gifts of the Seymour name. They don’t want babies. They don’t want vows. They don’t care if I disappear for weeks or f**k another woman in bet**en, and I am more than happy to send them back to their husbands when they start crying about commitment and devotion. Seymours don’t care about love. We have money, and no matter what the adages say, enough of it, and you can fill any hole.

This obsession with Brystin and her marriage is simply self-sabotage. That’s what my million-dollar life coach would say. Something to blame when I don’t succeed with my vision for SNC. An illusory distraction.

But damn, does it feel f**king real.

“Why are you with Elvis Endlich?”

She’s clearly taken aback, stammering her response. “Where did…? What kind of…? Who asks that? We’re married. I’m with him because, you know. I love him.”

It took a long time to get to those last three words.

And when I hear them, my gut goes as hard as the fists in my lap and the pulsing erection in my pants.

I don’t fail to notice she only mentioned that she loves him—not the other way around. “You love him, and it’s cool that he f**ks around? I’m sure you know he does. There’s no way you don’t.”

Any other married woman I’ve f**ked would take this conversation in stride. They’d probably be the one to bring it up.

With Brystin, I can’t help being cruel. I want to be cruel, even. I want her to feel the same pierce of disappointment that I feel every time I remember she said “I do” to a shallow f**k of a man.

As suspected, she gets defensive, pulling her shrug around her. “Who says we don’t have an open marriage?”

“An open marriage where he gets to f**k and you don’t? You did say that intercourse would be cheating.”

Her l*ps purse, and her eyes blink rapidly. There’s a falsehood buried in there somewhere. I’m just not sure which part is the lie. “I don’t want to talk about this with you.”

I lean forward. “How about I give you options? Continue the conversation or get down on your knees.”

Obviously, the choice is a ruse. I’ll get everything I want, in the end. I always do.

Expecting a longer debate, I’m surprised when she immediately falls to her knees. My dick jumps in anticipation, and I give her a proud grin. “That’s my good girl.”

I reward her with a high buzz from the toy p**ssing against her c**t. She jolts as soon as I turn it on, confirming it’s still in place. “Very, very good girl.”

After considering the idea of making her crawl to me—a sight which would probably have me jizzing in my pants—I stand and cross to her, more intent on living out this particular fantasy center stage.

As soon as I reach her, I shove one hand in her hair and pull her neck back so she’s forced to peer up at me. “Take a good look at my face, Brystin. I want you to remember whose c**k you’re s**king, in case it might be confusing.”

Her plump peach l*ps open, but I interrupt whatever she’s intent on saying with another buzz from the toy, and all that comes from her l*ps is a whimper.

“Don’t worry—I’ll make sure you come too, honeybee.” I release her hair and draw my hand down the side of her face before pushing my thumb into the lush warmth of her mouth. On cue, she s**ks. “You’re going to have to do better than that if you want to taste my c**k.”

This time, she s**ks with more enthusiasm, and with another line of praise. She likes this, I realize. Being told she’s good. That she’s pretty. That she’s mine.

Elvis probably doesn’t tell her enough.

Has her so starving for it that what I dole out incrementally feels like a feast.

f**k Elvis. I don’t want him here right now, while she’s mine.

“Take my c**k out, then put your hands on your th**hs, open your mouth, and stick out your t***ue.”

She scrambles to do so, almost eagerly. When she puts her hands on her th**hs, she’s such the perfect image of a model sub that I almost laugh out in pure joy. How the hell did I get so lucky to find her?

Not luck, persistence. I scoured the local stations across the nation looking for her. I just never imagined she’d turn out to be such a f**king dream.

With my hand at the back of her skull to hold her head in place, I bounce my tip on her t***ue, getting harder at the sight of her saliva mixing with the pre-cum on my crown.

Mother. f**king. Dream.

“You can s**k me now.” It’s a demand, not a suggestion.

Appropriately, she responds as such, wr*pping her l*ps along my c**k and running her t***ue along the base of my length. She bobs her head over me, taking me shallow with the first few returns, then deep enough that I touch the back of her throat.

I reward her with an erratic low pulse on her c**t that has her shifting on her haunches.

Simultaneously, she reverts to the shallow bobs. “I need you to concentrate, Brystin. If you get too distracted with your own pleasure, I’ll have to take over. I should tell you now—I expect you to deepthroat.”

Her eyes widen, possibly in trepidation, but she doesn’t make any attempt to struggle. Instead, she resumes the deep plunges that aren’t quite my preference but feel damn near ecstasy all the same. I hit the remote, giving her another unexpected buzz that makes her hum and sends sharp tingles down the back of my spine.

“f**k. Your mouth.” I’m afraid I’m going to come too soon, come down her throat instead of on her skin like I’m dying to.

And still, as close as I am to what I know will be a mind-blowing release, my head goes back to that same sabotaging loop. “Is this how you s**k Elvis?”

She can’t answer without stopping, and I don’t want her to stop.

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