Price Of Pleasure: Bound By The Billionaire's Contract

Chapter 2

(Elena’s POV)

I didn't sleep. Not a single wink. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt Julian’s rough fingers grazing my c**t, and I could hear his voice calling me a slut in that low, vibrating rumble. I spent the entire night tossing and turning, my thighs rubbing together, my pus*sy aching with a hollow, throbbing need that I couldn't satisfy. My body was a live wire, humming with unfinished electricity.

The text message glowed on my nightstand.

I saw how wet you were for him.

I'd checked the locks three times. Checked the windows twice. The rational part of my brain said it was a prank, a wrong number, someone's sick joke. But the deeper part, the part that had soaked through lace in Julian Thorne's office whispered something else. Someone had been watching. Someone was still watching.

Dawn bled through the curtains before I gave up on rest entirely.

At 5:47 AM, I stood outside Julian's penthouse, my finger hovering over the doorbell. I'd followed his instructions: no breakfast, simple clothes. A sundress the color of forget-me-nots. Nothing underneath. The absence of fabric against my cunt felt like a confession.

The door swung open before I pressed the button.

Julian filled the doorway in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle. No suit jacket. No tie. The casualness was somehow more intimidating than the three-piece armor he had worn yesterday. It said: I don't need to dress for you. You're not a meeting. You're a function.

"05:47," he observed, stepping aside. "You're early."

"Yes, sir."

The words came out before I could think them. Julian's mouth curved, not a smile, exactly, but something close. Something pleased.

"Good girl. Come in."

The penthouse was all glass and steel, like his office, but warmer. A fire crackled in a marble hearth despite the mild morning. The floors were dark hardwood. The furniture was minimal, a leather sectional, a low table, and in the center of the living room, something that made my stomach drop.

A cushion. Black velvet. Placed directly in front of a leather armchair.

(Julian’s POV)

I walked to the armchair and sat down, my legs spreading wide, my hands resting on the armrests like a king on a throne. I nodded toward the cushion. "Kneel."

The command was quiet. Absolute.

Her legs carried her forward. The velvet compressed under her knees, plush and obscenely soft. From this position, her eyes were level with my belt buckle, silver, monogrammed, gleaming in the firelight. She could smell me again: sandalwood, clean cotton, the faint salt of my skin.

"Every morning," I said, "you'll kneel here. Seven days a week. Before coffee, before breakfast, before anything else. You'll worship my c**k until I decide you've done it properly. Some mornings that means ten minutes. Some mornings it means an hour. The duration is not your concern."

Her throat tightened. "Yes, sir."

"You've never done this before, have you? No man has ever put you on your knees and taught you how to serve."

It wasn't a question. She shook her head anyway.

"Words, Elena."

"No, sir. Never."

I reached down and cupped her chin, tilting her face upward. My thumb traced her lower lip, parting it from the upper, exposing the wet pink inside. "Then this is an education. And I am an exacting teacher." He released me and leaned back. "Unbuckle my belt."

Her fingers trembled as they found the leather. The silver buckle was heavy, cold against her knuckles. She fumbled with the prong, her breath shallow, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. The leather slid free with a whisper.

"Now the button. Then the zipper. Use your teeth if your hands won't cooperate, I don't care how you do it, only that it gets done."

The button gave way. The zipper hissed downward. Beneath the black fabric of my trousers, my erection pressed against the cotton of my boxer briefs, thick, demanding, impossible to ignore. The heat of me radiated through the fabric.

"Take me out."

(Elena’s POV)

I reached into the opening and freed him.

The sight of Julian Thorne's c**k stole the air from my lungs.

Thick. Uncut. The head flushed a deep rose, glistening at the tip where a bead of moisture had already formed. A vein traced the underside like a river on a map. He was so large that my fingers couldn't close around the base completely, my fingertips didn't meet my thumb.

"Look at me," Julian commanded.

I dragged my eyes upward.

"This c**k is your responsibility now. Its pleasure is your purpose. When it's hard, you'll kneel. When it's wet, you'll swallow. You'll learn to read its every twitch and pulse better than you read your own body. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir." My voice was barely a whisper.

"Then show me. Use your tongue first. Trace every inch. I want to feel you learn me."

I leaned forward. The heat of him brushed my lips before I made contact, a phantom sensation that made my own s*x clench around nothing. Then my tongue touched the base of his shaft, and everything else fell away.

The taste was salt and skin and something sharp and masculine that had no name. I dragged my tongue upward slowly, following that river-vein, mapping the terrain of him. The texture was velvet over steel. At the ridge of the head, I paused, licking the delicate seam where foreskin met glans.

Julian's hand settled on the back of my head. Not pushing. Just… present.

"The tip," he murmured. "There's a drop there. Taste it."

I obeyed. The bead of moisture was viscous, slightly bitter, utterly intoxicating. It clung to my tongue like a promise.

"In a moment, there will be more. Much more. And you'll take every drop." His fingers threaded through my hair, tightening just enough to make my scalp sing. "Now open your mouth."

I let my jaw go slack. Julian guided himself past my lips, and the weight of him on my tongue was immediate, heavy, warm, alive. The head pressed against the roof of my mouth, then retreated. Pressed again, deeper this time.

"Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. You'll take me deeper than you think you can."

He pushed further. My gag reflex fluttered, a panicked spasm in the back of my throat and I made a sound, something strangled and desperate. Julian stilled immediately.

"Easy. Breathe." His voice was calm, instructive, almost gentle. "You're not being punished. You're being taught. The difference is everything."

Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, not from pain, but from the strange intimacy of his patience. He could have forced it. Could have held my head and f****d my throat until I gagged and sobbed. But he didn't. He waited, his c**k buried only halfway, his thumb stroking the shell of my ear.

"Try again."

I breathed. I relaxed. And this time, when he pushed deeper, my throat opened for him.

"There," Julian breathed, and the satisfaction in his voice was a drug more potent than anything I'd ever tasted. "Right there. Good"

The praise ignited something in my chest, a warmth that spread outward, downward, settling in my c**t until it throbbed in time with my heartbeat. My thighs pressed together involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking anything.

"Ah." Julian's hand tightened in my hair, pulling me off his c**k with a wet pop. "You're aroused. I can smell it from here." His eyes dropped to where my thighs were clenched. "Show me."

I blinked, dazed. "Sir?"

"Lift your dress. Show me what worshipping my c**k does to your cunt."

With shaking hands, I gathered the fabric of my sundress and pulled it up to my waist. The firelight flickered across my bare thighs, my bare s*x, the slick evidence of my arousal glistening on the inner slopes.

Julian leaned forward, his gaze fixed on my exposed flesh. "Spread your legs. Wider." I obeyed, and the cool air kissed my wetness. "Look at you. Dripping down your thighs, and I haven't touched you once. You really were starving, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir." The words came out broken.

"Then you understand the exchange now." He guided his c**k back to my lips, the head nudging against them, smearing moisture across my mouth. "You give me your throat. I give you the only purpose that matters. Fair?"

"Fair."

"Then finish what you started."

I took him back into my mouth with a hunger that shocked me. The taste was familiar now, almost comforting. I hollowed my cheeks the way I'd seen in movies, the way instinct demanded, and Julian's sharp inhale was my reward.

"Good. Yes. Use your hand for what won't fit."

My fingers wrapped around the base of his shaft, stroking in rhythm with my mouth. The combination, tongue on the underside, hand at the root, the wet sounds filling the quiet room was obscene and sacred and everything in between. Julian's breathing changed, growing rougher, his hips beginning to rock in small, involuntary thrusts.

"Look at me," he growled.

I raised my eyes.

The sight of Julian Thorne, cold, controlled Julian Thorne with his head tipped back and his jaw tight and his composure cracking at the edges was the most erotic thing I had ever witnessed. Power shifted between us like a current, back and forth, his control feeding my submission, my submission feeding his pleasure.

"Elena." My name was a warning. "I'm close. You'll take it. Every drop. Swallow, and don't you dare let a single—"

I hollowed my cheeks and sucked.

Julian broke off with a groan that was almost pained. His hand fisted in my hair, holding me still as his c**k pulsed against my tongue, and then he was coming, thick and hot and salt-bitter, flooding my mouth in waves. I swallowed reflexively, throat working, taking everything he gave me exactly as he'd commanded.

The room went quiet except for the crackle of the fire and our ragged breathing.

Julian pulled me off his c**k gently this time, his thumb wiping a smear of moisture from the corner of my mouth. He looked down at me, kneeling, trembling, lips swollen, dress bunched around my waist, thighs glistening with my own arousal and something flickered in his icy eyes.

Something that looked almost like reverence.

"You learn fast," he murmured. "But this was the easy lesson. Tomorrow, I'll teach you what happens when you beg."

He stood, tucked himself back into his trousers, and walked toward the kitchen without looking back.

"Coffee's on the counter. Drink it. You've earned it."

I stayed on my knees, pulse still hammering, the taste of him still coating my tongue. The sun had fully risen now, painting the penthouse in shades of gold. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city woke and stirred.

Inside, so had I.