Hostile Takeover Hill, W (thriller books to read .txt) 📖

had at least an hour to pull it off. There was a guard in reception to watch the cameras pan through the buildings and decks, but he didn’t pay close attention unless one of the guards called in a camera check. The footage was merely for history, flagged if a problem cropped up. Ben wondered what had caught Randall’s interest if there’d been no damage to the car.

He parked on the top covered level, the back corner. It was a secluded area, but one camera was focused directly on that section. He sat down, his attention sharpening. And then everything else disappeared.

She was walking toward his car. In five-inch heels that had a plethora of straps over her ankle and a little tassel teasing the back. She was crossing one leg over the other, putting a serious sway to her hips. As he watched, she unbelted the thin coat she was wearing, let it slide down slow, until it fell below her bare shoulder blades. Her hair was slicked back and in a tight knot on her head, the black and white of the camera making it look darker. But he already knew that hair was blonde and thick. With a faint scent of perfumed coconut.

The garment dropped to her waist, the sleeves holding her elbows to her sides. She stopped in front of the grill of the car as if studying it, her back to the camera. Then the coat fell to the ground. Milk-cream skin, slim arms and legs, a gentle flare of hips. An Audrey Hepburn figure in truth. Completely naked.

“Fucking Jesus.” He snapped up straight in his chair as if he could throw a coat over her, ask her if she’d lost her mind, even realizing he was looking at something that had happened hours ago.

She moved another several steps toward the car, keeping his gaze glued to the swing of her ass. She didn’t play it up, just put everything that was female and perfect into the movement, the slight quiver of the buttock as her heel made contact with the deck concrete, the shift of hip as she moved forward. When she put her knee on the nose of the car, Ben stifled a groan as she braced her hand on the hood and then looked over her shoulder at him, right at the camera.

She was wearing a mask. A Mardi Gras mask with deep purple and teal green feathers, the gold thread edging drawing attention to her lips and sweet line of chin. The feathers brushed her temples. A tiny waterfall of rhinestones emphasized the eyes.

Holy fuck. He’d seen this mask before. Her movements at the file cabinets had been familiar for reasons other than inheriting her sister’s grace. Marcie hadn’t been lying. She had gone to a club. She’d been at Surreal ten days ago.

He usually played private, but lately the privacy mocked the intimacy he really wasn’t getting with his subs, so he’d decided to go for a public playroom scene. He’d gone over the top, chosen three women. Clara, Sharon and Myra. All staff regulars up for hire, and his preference that night because they thrived on rough edge play.

He’d put them in a triangle of stocks, the kind that bound neck and wrists, and then he’d locked their feet to the floor in the anchored boots that increased the sense of vulnerability. He’d gone to work on them with a flogger, then wielded a paddle with expert precision and force until they were crying, the marks showing on their asses, but they were also soaked as honey hives. Drawing out that honey with clever fingers that had them on the cusp of orgasm, he’d mixed that natural lubricant with a stimulant that would heat up their rectums, make them even more sensitive to his penetration.

He’d been ruthless that night, wringing two or three orgasms out of each woman before he’d plunged his cock into them. Three different condoms, three different orgasms. When he was done, his chest was heaving and his vision was a little gray, so when he sat down on a nearby bench to watch their aftercare, handled by the staff, he was almost spent. But not too spent to notice her.

He’d been peripherally aware of her during the session, which was unusual in itself, because once in a scene, it usually absorbed him completely. In this case, as the scene became more intense, he noticed her more. She kept circling, so he saw her first on his left, then right, at a distance, then closer. She’d eventually found a stationary spot, near the wall across the floor of the public play area, blending with the shadows.

She’d been wearing a simple black cocktail dress, no rubber club bracelet that gave a clear indication of her status. No jewelry except the silver collar and pendant he’d never seen close up, not until last night. She’d worn a killer pair of strap heels then as now, and the dress’s neckline framed her swelling cleavage in an eye-catching way. Because the dress was snug, he’d had a few tempting glimpses of her ass.

Throughout his scene, she’d stayed riveted on what he was doing. She was a sub; he’d felt it from her like a beacon call, and just the kind of sub he took pleasure in breaking down, breaking open. She’d be a virgin to having her ass fucked, he was sure of it.

By the end, it was almost as if he was performing for her. When he was balls deep inside Myra, listening to her grunt deliciously at the power of his strokes, he saw the mystery woman’s lips part, her tongue touch her lips, a delicate movement of need and yearning. Her fingers had gripped the rail so that he suspected her knuckles were white, and her body was pressed against it. If she’d been closer at that point, he would have told her to lift her skirt, put her fingers on her wet pussy and masturbate for